The Hero Who Loved Me
by Random Equinox
Summary: Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus. Heroes come from all walks of life. None of that helped Miranda understand one Commander Shepard. For all she knew, he came from dark space.
1. Miranda versus the Plan

_Editorial Note: Shepard's mission against the Collectors and their Reaper masters represented a pivotal moment in his career and his personal life. It occurs to me that there is no one better positioned to comment on these changes than the woman who played a significant role in the former and an even greater one in the latter. The following entries from Miranda Lawson's own personal logs have been selected for the insight and perspective they offer into various aspects of Commander Shepard._

**Miranda Versus the Plan**

I don't have patience for incompetence. Or recklessness.

Or heroes.

In my experience, most heroes encapsulate all of the above. They are lauded for achievements or accomplishments under trying circumstances. Of course, the fools doing all the praising don't realize that those circumstances came about _because _of the so-called hero's incompetence, recklessness, impatience or simple stupidity. Instead, they reward behaviour that should be punished, embrace what should be shunned, encourage what should be discouraged. It's a wonder the galaxy hasn't fallen into complete and utter chaos by now. Why no one sees that is beyond me. I know I was designed to be more intelligent than other sapients, but surely the majority of beings in the galaxy couldn't be _that _dense.

Granted, not all heroes are bumbling fools. Some of them are just so... naive. So innocent. Sticking steadfastly to their beliefs in the midst of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Seeing everything through rose-tinted lenses or—worse—a rigid view of black-and-white when the galaxy is so much grimmer and grayer. I don't mean to dismiss those who believe in something. It would be hypocritical to do so when I sacrificed everything for Cerberus and the greater good it promises for humanity. But this kind of wilful ignorance? It frustrates me to no end.

Thankfully, those kinds of heroes make up the vast majority. The real dangerous heroes are the posers. Frauds who deliberately manipulate the situation and their surroundings to make their every move and decision seem larger-than-life. They pretend to be the good guy, the one you can rely on, the one you can trust—and then they stab you in the back. Because it's only the ones you trust that can get close enough to betray you. And when that happens, what can you do? You can't tell the truth. _Everyone _knows the hero couldn't possibly have done that. Not the good guy. Not the reliable one. Not the trustworthy fellow. **(1)**

You must realize that I don't usually spend so much time thinking about the myriad foibles of heroes. I suppose I've been making an exception because I spent the last two days studying and analyzing one such specimen to determine whether he was the one we needed to weather the coming storm.

You must have heard of him. The Hero of Elysium. The Hero of the Skyllium Blitz. The first human Spectre. Yes—_that _hero. My conclusions were still tentative, so I hadn't completely worked out what made Shepard tick. He seemed to have this knack for getting into situations and then getting out of them with unbelievably spectacular results. I didn't know whether this was the result of some sort of tactical genius or merely a divine fool's luck. **(2)**

I did know that his latest accomplishment had exceeded all of my expectations. Which were very high, let me tell you. That made the actions of the Council even more aggravating.

It was on that note that I concluded my summary to the Illusive Man. I was in his office—which was more of an honour than one might realize. Most people communicated with the Illusive Man through intermediaries. Some had the authority to send and receive e-mails from him personally. Few had the access codes to make vid-calls. Even fewer had quantum communicators that granted instantaneous real-time access no matter where they were.

I was amongst a select few who had all of those _plus _access privileges to see the Illusive Man in person. I'd earned that right. For all the observations and analyses I'd completed for Cerberus. For all the conclusions that only I could have made. For all the times I completed my assignments and missions, no matter how impossible and regardless of the cost. For all my many sins.

Which also meant I'd earned the right to express any frustrations I might be feeling. And right now, I was feeling quite frustrated. "Shepard did everything right," I said. "More than we could've hoped for. Saving the Citadel—even saving the Council. Humanity has the trust of the entire galaxy... and still it's not enough."

From the corner of my eye, I saw the Illusive Man's latest secretary—and, no doubt one of his current partners. The Illusive Man was many things, but a saint was not one of them—silently enter the office and hand him a datapad. "Our sacrifices have earned the Council's gratitude," the Illusive Man agreed, "but Shepard remains our best hope."

"But they're sending him to fight geth." I turned back angrily from the star that was lazily glowing—the Illusive Man seemed to have a penchant for holographic images of stars—and walked back towards him. _"Geth_," I emphasized as I passed through some holographic screens. They were depicting financial information from various covert accounts, if I remembered correctly. At the time, I was more focused on the sheer, and painfully predictable, stupidity of the government. "We both know they're not the real threat. The Reapers are still out there."

The Illusive Man signed off on the datapad and returned it to the secretary. She left, as silent as when she'd first entered. "And it's up to us to stop them," he said calmly, removing the cigarette from his mouth and exhaling.

"The Council will never trust Cerberus. They'll never accept our help," I seethed. "Even after everything humanity has accomplished."

"We _are _regarded as a 'terrorist group'," the Illusive Man reminded me. "The Council might not want to get caught associating with us."

"Of course," I sniffed. "The Council does love to stick their heads in the sand. They do it all the time when a Spectre creates another PR disaster in the course of their investigations. Or when they give their STGs carte blanche to monitor and handle developing situations, even if that means defusing them by assassinating key individuals or worse." I would have gone on to call them blind fools, but I must confess that far too many Cerberus operatives and affiliates were equally short-sighted due to their virulent—and irrational—xenophobia. So I suppose I can understand the position of the Council, just a little bit.

"Which is why we may need to sway them through a more acceptable intermediary," the Illusive Man agreed.

"Like Shepard," I grudgingly admitted. "They'll listen to him. They'll follow him. He's a hero after all, a bloody icon for the masses. But he's just one man. If we lose him, humanity might well follow."

The Illusive Man took another puff from his cigarette. "Then see to it that we don't lose him."

"Don't worry," I told him. "I have a plan."

* * *

Naturally, that plan was jettisoned out the airlock when Shepard died a couple weeks later.

I'd blame it on his stupidity or incompetence, but testimonies from the survivors—which we acquired thanks to our contacts within the Alliance—indicated that the Normandy was ambushed by an unidentified vessel with superior firepower. Under the circumstances, Shepard did everything right. Going down with the ship and so on. Of course, that still didn't change the fact that Shepard was dead. Without him, without that symbol, humanity was on a slippery downward slope.

Now I wasn't surprised that the Illusive Man had a plan of his own. I was surprised, however, by its sheer scope and ambition. Not that I would show it, of course.

"You want to recover Shepard's body. Bring it back to life. And restore Shepard's memories, experiences, morals and personality," I summarized.

"Precisely," the Illusive Man confirmed through a puff of smoke. Then he dropped the bombshell: "And I want you to lead the cell that will do it."

"Me."

"You did write numerous papers detailing the resources and requirements needed to rehabilitate injured Cerberus operatives."

"Note the difference between injured and dead."

"You singlehandedly outlined every transaction and every dummy account needed to bring together the equipment and components needed to construct the new Normandy. Without any VI assistance."

"The Normandy is still two years behind schedule."

"That delay is not your fault and you did correctly predict it upon review."

True. Which was why that development gave me a warm tingle of success instead of the bitter sting of failure. I focused my attention back on the Illusive Man, who was continuing his sales pitch, for lack of a better phrase. "You thwarted that batarian attack on the Citadel."

"I had help."

"Very capable help, which you recruited into Cerberus. You also managed to track down the movements of over half of the Citadel Council's STGs for the past year. A very impressive feat, particularly considering the renowned and well-deserved reputations of the salarians for espionage and secrecy."

"Over half is not all and one year does not account for almost 2700 years of STG operations."

"The point is that you have an established and well-deserved history of doing the impossible."

"Not impossible," I corrected. "Just highly improbable. Bringing someone back from the dead is—"

"Impossible," the Illusive Man interrupted. "But with you in command, it will simply be another highly improbable—but ultimately successful—assignment."

It was clear that the Illusive Man was dead set on this. The more I thought about it, though, the more I was a little intrigued. Very intrigued, if I was honest with myself. I had done more than my fair share of difficult assignments. The fact that I had not only completed them, but exceeded all expectations, was simply a result of my superior design and training. I never really earned all those accolades. Not really. But this? This might actually be the one. The one assignment I can point to and honestly say I did it through hard work and perseverance. Especially if I didn't have to file requisitions in triplicate to get what I needed. "Then I'd best get started," I said at last.

"How quickly can you get operational?" the Illusive Man asked.

"That depends on how quickly I can get complete access," I replied. "I need a list of all our present covert bases, including their equipment manifests. Our complete cargo inventory and personnel—both active and inactive—as well as the authority to requisition whatever and whomever I desire. A line of credit to begin making purchases. And access to transport to move materiel and personnel."

"Already done," The Illusive Man said easily. "Get to work."

"Right away," I nodded. I left the office without wasting any more of his time, mentally making a preliminary list of supplies. That was the easy part.

The hard part would be finding the body.

* * *

We soon discovered that Shepard's body should have been on Alchera, amidst the wreckage of the Normandy, but had somehow gone missing. In hindsight, I really shouldn't have been surprised.

A detailed multiphasic spectral scan and measurements of mass relay emissions quickly determined that we weren't the only ones looking for Shepard. I put out feelers to all our contacts and began monitoring as many e-mails and communiqués as possible for any mention of Shepard. Thanks to my customized search programs, we managed to weed out the volumes and volumes of news stories, special features, tributes, memorials and particularly outlandish conspiracy theories. As a result, it wasn't long before we uncovered the truth: it seemed the Shadow Broker had been hired to retrieve his body, preserve it in a stasis pod, and deliver it to the Collectors. This mysterious group of insectoid aliens had periodically emerged from the equally enigmatic Omega 4 relay to do trade. The peculiarity of their requests—from two dozen left-handed salarians to a krogan born from feuding clans—was only matched by the startling advancement of the technology they offered. But they hadn't been seen in a couple centuries.

My investigation led me to Omega, where I quickly bumped into one of two familiar faces. The first face I recognized from several previous encounters. Feron was a rather shifty drell. Gun-for-hire. Mercenary. Services available to the highest bidder, which explained why he worked with numerous employers such as the Shadow Broker—usually simultaneously. The other face was unexpected, but just as familiar: Shepard's old acquaintances—Liara T'Soni. She'd been one of the harder ones to track down. After his death, she'd dropped off the grid, periodically reappearing in random ports across the galaxy. But now she'd come out of hiding, had met up with Feron and—I soon learned—was also looking for Shepard.

I'm usually a good judge of character, but I didn't need that skill to realize how... how driven Liara was. How she was wracked with guilt—however misplaced—over letting Shepard die. Despite our pro-human policies, Liara recognized that we both had the same goal: to save Shepard.

I took her to the Illusive Man. He also recognized the personal stake she had in this mission, which could be used to our advantage. To that end, he asked her to find out what the Collectors wanted with Shepard and to retrieve his body. Privately, I hoped that her emotional connection would not adversely influence her efficacy.

In the end, it turned out that one of Feron's other employers was the Illusive Man himself. It seemed that Feron had contacted Cerberus himself because he'd felt disgusted at the notion of the Shadow Broker dealing with beings like the Collectors, and the idea of trading the body of a 'hero' like Shepard sickened him. This mission had been full of surprises so far, so I guess I wasn't too shocked by his change of heart.

Nor was I shocked by the fact that the Illusive Man kept this from me: compartmentalization of information is very important, especially in my line of work. You never know when someone might get apprehended by the authorities or kidnapped by criminals or mercs. The last thing you want is that person having enough information to take down the entire organization.

Liara and Feron never really found out why the Collectors were so interested in Shepard's body. The Shadow Broker was no help—all he could offer was that it was too good a business deal and that he couldn't see how the Collectors or the Reapers could benefit from getting a corpse. The former was no surprise, considering who we were talking about. As for the latter, well, I'd been doing some research while searching for Shepard's body. There were some avenues worth exploring when it came to memory reconstruction and retrieval. If we were close to a breakthrough, then the Collectors and Reapers—with all of their advanced technology—certainly were already there. Besides, who knows what they could uncover from Shepard's genome?

All that mattered was that Liara succeeded in recovering Shepard's body. A qualified success—Feron stayed behind to buy enough time for Liara to escape—but a success nonetheless. **(3)**

Liara clearly didn't feel that way. I could tell that just by looking at her. Slightly hunched over, head down, morose expression painted over her face. Sad look in her eyes—no. That last part wasn't entirely accurate. Sadness, yes, but there was something else. Too many possibilities to pin it down exactly. Having just come from the med lab where Shepard's stasis pod was being kept, I debated what I should tell her. For all Liara's hard work, the truth might be the tipping point that would send her over the edge. Maybe a little lie, a slight adjustment of the truth was in order. In the end, I settled for the honest truth. She had earned that much. **(4)**

"You did well, Liara," I said, putting a hand on her shoulder—studies had indicated that several species, including asari, interpreted that gesture as comforting. "We were right to put our faith in you. Shepard obviously made some very good friends. I just wish we had better news for you."

Liara's face jerked up at that last part, as I'd feared. I took a breath before continuing. "We may not be able to restore Shepard after all. The body is in worse shape than we expected. There were some preservation systems in the pod, but they were hardly optimal."

To say that last sentence was an understatement would be putting it mildly. I recall wincing when I first saw the pod, all riddled with dents and bullet holes. Any hope that that damage hadn't affected the pod's medical systems were dashed when I reviewed the sensor readouts. To be honest, it was all I could do not to panic with the rest of the staff. Someone had to keep a level head.

"Then I don't see the point, Miranda," Liara said softly. "Bringing Shepard back from a coma is one thing. But if he is truly dead... maybe I don't know what human traditions are, but I really think you should let the dead rest. This isn't what I brought Shepard back for. This... experimenting with his body, this attempt to force his return. It is almost like... like—"

I could see where this was going. "Like something the Collectors would have done?" I finished. "We don't know _what _they would have done, Liara, though hopefully the information you brought back may suggest something. And it might not be as bad as you think: the Illusive Man is more hopeful about Shepard's prospects. We're willing to spend everything and devote every resource we've got to bring him back—but it will still take a very long time, if it works at all. I wouldn't sit around here waiting, if I were you."

I'll admit I had a perfectly selfish reason to tell her that last part. Assuming we did somehow succeed—no, failure was not an option—_when _we succeeded in bringing Shepard back, we would have a specific purpose for him. A more focused agenda to promote the development and dominance of humanity, not a slapdash, distracted effort to maintain the galactic status quo that was holding humanity back. Having Liara around could make that more difficult.

On the other hand, I could tell how driven she was. Only someone consumed with such a burning desire would throw herself into harm's way and cast her lot with any available allies. I could empathize: my abilities, my potential, my expectations, my present affiliations—everything that defined what I was today stemmed from my father and my ultimately successful efforts to cut ties with him. I couldn't escape it, no matter how hard I tried. Maybe I saw that it wasn't too late for Liara. Perhaps I sensed that she hadn't gone too far down the dark path and there was still time to get out before the door slammed shut.

"What will the Illusive Man do about Feron?" Liara asked.

"Do?" I repeated blankly. Why she seemed to worry about the mercenary was beyond me. While he had proven to be a more reliable and principled asset than I'd initially given him credit for, he was still just that—an asset. Nothing more, nothing less. "The drell knew the risks when he offered to help. We won't be going after him.

"If _you _want to," I continued, seeing her face harden, "that's your business—but I would focus on something else if I were you. Do something _you _want to do."

"That's exactly what I'm going to do, Miranda," Liara whispered. "I've got another friend to help now, and I've made a new enemy. I'm afraid we all have."

I wasn't sure whether she was talking about the Shadow Broker, the Collectors or both.

* * *

After Liara left, the Lazarus cell went to work. Transferred Shepard's body to another stasis pod—one that actually worked properly—and then began a series of medical scans to determine how bad the damage was and begin to devise a plan of restoring humanity's hero. This became increasingly important as word began filtering through of human colonies mysteriously going dark. As if the Reapers weren't bad enough—now we had these mysterious abductors to worry about too.

The worst part was how no one seemed to get the point of the mission. How could they... they were supposed to be the best and brightest. Pioneers. Trailblazers. I had personally hand-picked—and, in most cases, headhunted—all of them. How could they not get it? Were they faking it all this time? Were they stupid?

"I don't think they're stupid, Miranda."

I looked up at Jacob. He'd dropped by my office. Unannounced. Uninvited. There were only three reasons why I didn't throw him out. One: he'd proven time and time again to be very competent at his job. Two: he wouldn't waste my time unknowingly. Three: both of my hands were busy programming simulations, running them and analyzing the results, so I couldn't spare a few seconds effort to generate a biotic field and toss him out.

"You really shouldn't talk out loud like that," he chided gently. "Might look like you're losing it."

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Just bumped into Wilson," he started without preamble. "Sounds like you rode him pretty hard at the last meeting."

"Wilson's sloppy," I sniffed. "He's the neurology expert. Graduated with his M.D. and Ph.D. in three years. Worked in the field for two decades. His theories and designs on brain mapping and neural reconstruction were the reason I hired him. But I identified and corrected over a hundred basic mistakes after only looking over his work for a minute. No wonder he had so many malpractice suits."

"So why'd you hire him?" Jacob frowned.

"There were only two other candidates. One had just died of a heart attack. The other one decided to experiment on himself without proper safeguards. He's currently in a vegetative state."

Jacob allowed himself a slight shiver before continuing. "Then I bumped into Kathryn. She was sobbing about how you tore her ideas apart."

"Dr. Roche's suggestions were flawed," I dismissed. "No thought to the complexities and interactions her compounds might have with the cells, tissues or organs. Not to mention the metabolism—the changes they'd make would give Shepard anemia in a heartbeat. He'd be lucky if he could get off the table without fainting. That's assuming he doesn't going into a diabetic coma—"

"And then there was Megan," Jacob continued, as if I hadn't said anything. "I don't know what you said, but you turned her into a stammering mess."

"Dr. Reed should spend more time getting the equipment on-line and less time dreaming ways to turn Shepard into a cyborg," I said scathingly. "She kept talking about how Shepard didn't need this organ or that limb and how cybernetic replacements would be so much better. Though I suppose I shouldn't expect anything less from a student of Dr. Soong."

"Why are you being so hard on them?"

"Because they don't get it," I snapped. "They say they knew what they were signing up for. They say they know what the mission is—and yet they refuse to do anything that might help accomplish it. They keep saying it can't be done. That the body can't last long enough for any proposed restoration to take effect. That it's already falling apart and can't handle any more strain without added support. Can't, can't, can't. That's all they say. You'd think they didn't know what the mission was."

"To bring Shepard back," Jacob reiterated.

"Yes," I nodded. "Which would go a lot faster if they stopped wasting time—"

"Exactly the way he was."

"Precisely," I confirmed, excusing his interruptions for the time being.

"Was that mentally or physically?"

"Both."

"Really?" Jacob frowned. "Because everything I've heard suggested it was more mental. You ever listen to the scuttlebutt?"

I gave Jacob a withering look. "I have better things to do with my time then troll the surveillance feeds for mindless gossip."

"Some people actually step outside and talk to people to get the gossip instead." Jacob held up his hands defensively when I glared at him again. "I'm just saying."

"What's your point?" I snapped.

"Look, whenever people talk about bringing Shepard back from the dead, they're talking about Shepard the person. The man. All the things he's seen and done. His experiences and memories. The morals and personality that make him who he was. No one's ever mentioned anything about his body."

"Go on," I prompted, leaning towards him. While I could have continued running simulations and analyzing them while talking to Jacob, there was the chance that he would interpret as a lack of interest or rudeness. I didn't have the time or patience to deal with the antagonism that would result from that scenario. Besides, I didn't have any more simulations to program anyway.

"As long as you can restore Shepard's mind and personality, does it really matter how you restore his body?" Jacob asked. "He's gonna have enough to deal with when he finds out he got spaced. Compared to that, having a few extra gadgets inside is nothing. Besides, it's not like you're sticking his brain in a mech."

"It's still not Shepard," I argued. "Not exactly. What you are suggesting, bringing only part of him—"

"The important part."

"Bringing only part of him back exactly the way he was won't cut it. It's not exact. It's not perfect."

"It's good enough."

I pierced Jacob with another glare. "Good enough?" I repeated. "Jacob, 'good enough' is for second-raters. Average people. Losers. You should know by now that I don't settle for 'good enough.' I wouldn't have gotten where I was today if I only strived for 'good enough.'"

Jacob was silent for a minute.

"You know, Shepard did a hell of a lot when he was a N7 with the Alliance," he finally said. "The things he accomplished were incredible. But when he became a Spectre? And chased down Saren? That was freaking _unbelievable_, especially given what he had to work with. You read the reports—and, knowing you, probably memorized them. You know the Normandy, for all her next-gen additions and designs, had her flaws. You know Shepard didn't get to select the perfect spec-ops squad to accompany him. Hell, he didn't even start out with the best weapons. He had to scrape and scrounge whatever crap weapons he could find and sell them until he'd earned enough to _buy them himself."_

"In other words, Shepard didn't have it perfect," I summarized.

"He often had to settle for second-rate," Jacob confirmed. "Or average. Or good enough. Just like the rest of us. But he _still _managed to make it work and saved the galaxy from the Reapers. Now I'm not a genius like you are. But from where I'm sitting? Those aren't the accomplishments of a loser."

No, they were the accomplishments of a so-called hero that everyone kept cooing and aw-ing over. Even Jacob, and he was normally immune to this sort of nonsense. So either he had finally succumbed to the whims of popular opinion and had bought into all the hype...

...or maybe, just maybe he had a point. Shepard _had_ succeeded in whatever he was tasked with. Somehow. As long as the critical components were resurrected, perhaps the rest could settle for 'second-rate.' Besides, I didn't want to fail because I couldn't adapt to the realities of the present situation. Including the shortcomings of others. And, perhaps, my own.

"I suppose there is a certain symmetry to settling for good enough in certain parts of this project," I grudgingly conceded. **(5)**

Jacob nodded before getting to his feet. "Well, just wanted to give my two cents," he harrumphed. "Gotta get back to work. Last batch of shotguns didn't have a tight enough spread."

It was only after he'd gone that I realized I hadn't thanked him for his advice. That would be the second oversight I'd made where he was concerned. The first was sleeping with him after we'd foiled what turned out to be a rather complicated scheme: initially, it appeared to be a plan by batarian extremists to disrupt peace talks between the Batarian Hegemony and the Systems Alliance. This quickly turned into a plot spearheaded by the batarian ambassador, Jath'Amon, to kill the Council itself by means of a bio-weapon. After defeating this plot, Jacob resumed the vacation that he had been taking when this whole situation developed. I invited myself in with a bottle of champagne and a smile, one thing led to another and so on.

At the time, I regarded it the whole exercise as a means to thwart alien aggression, earn a little more good-will towards humanity and test Jacob as a potential recruit for Cerberus. The fact that I could get some physical release was a bonus—and the fact that Jacob was so deliciously fit was an unexpected, but very welcome, bonus. The evening was very enjoyable, but that was all it was—a one-time event. Unfortunately, Jacob misunderstood the situation as something more long-term and serious.

Jacob took the news well, when I told him the truth. He agreed to join Cerberus. He worked with all the professionalism, dedication and hard work that we'd expected—even when working with me. But every time I looked into his eyes, I saw pain and longing. All because of one night of passion. All because I'd failed to understand how seriously he took such actions. If I'd known, I could have spared him his heartache. He didn't deserve to suffer like this. But he was suffering—because of my actions.

For the 496th time, I made a mental note to keep an eye out for any potential women I could steer his way. Women who deserved a quiet, steady, faithful man like Jacob.

Then I got back to work. The simulations had just finished, and some of the preliminary results were very intriguing.

* * *

The next year and a half flew by in a flash, as the mission—the plan—to bring Shepard back slowly took shape. Every week we'd hold meetings to discuss the progress that had been made so far, review any setbacks that had cropped up and make sure every team was working in a cohesive and integrated manner, rather than pursuing an avenue that would inadvertently impede another team's work. It was also an opportunity to review scientific or technological developments out in the galactic community and determine whether they could benefit the Lazarus Project. Anything we needed—be it additional funding, reagents or equipment—were given without the usual bureaucracy one would expect from a more official organization or institution.

Under my direction, tissues and organs were cloned and transplanted into Shepard's body. Customized compounds were injected to promote tissue regeneration. Medical nano-bots were administered to do everything from eliminating bacteria, viruses and other foreign substances to creating networks of 'tunnels' for freshly grown capillary and nerve networks.

Following Jacob's recommendation about settling for 'good enough' where needed, I oversaw the installation of various implants into Shepard's body, which we separated into categories for convenience. Category Three implants were temporary and short-term, designed to temporarily replace or supplement bodily functions until the various organs we cloned had been inserted and had a chance to stabilize and begin performing normal operations.

Category Two implants were the original replacement/supplementary implants. Initially, they were going to be removed because we couldn't receive any data from them. Some design defect was causing them to generate fields that sporadically disrupted signal telemetry. After a great deal of brainstorming and research through academic journals, I decided to use this phenomenon to our advantage. With a bit of repurposing, I managed to alter the fields so they would block a wider number of energy wavelengths on a more consistent and controllable basis and re-routed operating control to one of Shepard's cerebral implants. As a result, they could be triggered by mental command to render Shepard invisible to the electromagnetic spectrum, which meant that neither eyes nor sensors could detect him. It wasn't perfect—the implants were originally designed to be powered off of Shepard's bio-electrical rhythms, which would only generate enough energy for a couple seconds of 'cloaking,' and someone could still hear or smell him—but it was better than nothing.

However, there were some things that needed more help than biology alone could provide. Bone integrity, various connective tissues and so forth. Those elements required permanent assistance and support, which was where the Category One implants came in. An added benefit was that these implants tended to dramatically improve the performance of whatever they were supported. The downside, of course, was that I'd have to add several more implants or modifications that could handle the increased strain. For example, I had to artificially reinforce Shepard's skeleton so we could make additional adjustments without his entire body collapsing on us. As a side benefit, that could augment Shepard's strength—but only if we increased the number of myofibril bundles woven into his musculature. Otherwise, he'd tear his muscles or rip his tendons out.

Naturally, I could expect at least a half dozen proposals or requests for some implant to be designated a Category One, most of which were without regard for the consequences—medical or logistical. Most of the scientists accepted my decisions to turn down their requests without wasting my time with futile protests, probably because my own attempts to have a control chip implanted into Shepard had been shot down. At the time, I thought it made sense. Bringing back a loose cannon and hoping he'd do what we wanted if we pointed him in the right direction seemed more than a little foolhardy. **(6)** But no, the Illusive Man didn't want to risk altering Shepard's ability to lead, command and inspire. I suppose he had a point. While having remote override capability would be ideal, these were hardly ideal circumstances. We had enough problems replicating his memories as it was. The last thing we needed was to throw another random variable into the mix. For some reason, the scientists took comfort in the fact that 'even the high and mighty bitch didn't always get her way.' I wasn't complaining, if it meant they didn't quibble every time I explained why I had to decline their request.

The lone exception, of course, was Wilson. **(7)** He could always be counted on to belittle every comment or opinion I offered. To question or object to every decision I made. To waste my time for the flimsiest reason. From what Jacob said, the others found him equally unpleasant. But he never offered nearly as much resistance or hostility as he did to me. Clash of egos, perhaps? Or maybe he resented being subordinate to anyone.

Whatever the reason, he was a constant irritant, but one I had to suffer through for the sake of the project and the mission. Without his theories, the brain we cloned would have been nothing but a sack of meat and nerves. Without his techniques and devices, we wouldn't have been able to recover a single shred of thought or the slightest hint of a memory, much less the complex interactions of memories and experiences. We didn't know whether that would be enough to bring back the man who was Shepard, rather than a cyborg who could only recall the past like an obedient VI without any understanding or feeling. But Wilson's work was the best shot we had at bringing the plan to fruition.

And then he almost ruined it by coming this close to killing Shepard.

Wilson had been clamoring to inject element zero nodules into Shepard and give him biotic abilities since day one. First he'd go on and on about how it would accelerate humanity to the next stage of its evolution. Then he'd boast about how he'd mapped out every nerve pathway, every axon and dendrite, so he knew the exact quantity and location of sites to promote the optimum biotic potential. And then he'd claim that he'd also mapped Shepard's brain, replicating every thought process, association and memory—patent pending, of course—which meant it must be that much safer. I won't bore you with the rest. Suffice it to say I managed to wave him off by reminding him that such upgrades were premature considering the body was still, by all clinical definitions and standards, a corpse. Even after the series of resurrection processes was underway, any attempts to 'improve' Shepard that were not a side effect of our efforts to stabilize him were a foolish risk.

So imagine my surprise when I caught him prepping Shepard's body for the insertion of the first element zero nodule.

"Relax," he said condescendingly. "My simulations—"

"Are flawed," I interrupted. "I told you, your estimates are off. At best, they are wildly optimistic. You're more likely to revive him prematurely—which will kill him. Again."

"First: I have sedatives ready to administer in the remote chance that that might happen. Second: don't tell me how to do my job," Wilson sneered. "I've been doing this for twenty years."

"Not this," I corrected. "I've reviewed your work. You never implanted element zero nodules in a living subject or generated biotic abilities through artificial means. All of your work towards this area was through computer simulations. Which had an appalling failure rate, even if you consider the cherry-picked results you published in peer-reviewed journals."

"I would have been more successful if I was allowed to run actual experiments _in vivo._ But I couldn't do that because I was hampered by short-sighted fools who couldn't relax the death-grip on their wallets unless they were jerking themselves off," Wilson leered. "Thankfully, the Illusive Man is no fool. Besides, he has you to jerk him off, doesn't he?"

A common misconception, made by fools who were driven by hormones, jealousy or both. For the record, I have never slept or had any kind of sexual liaison with the Illusive Man. As a matter of fact, I hadn't had any sex in one year, six months and four days. Not that Wilson needed to know that.

I was about to tell him to halt his procedures immediately when something caught my eye. "What?" Wilson sighed, rolling his eyes.

"There," I pointed. "On the monitor. Something's wrong."

Wilson glanced at the monitor irritably and did a double-take. "He's... he's reacting to outside stimuli. Showing an awareness of his surroundings. Oh my god, Miranda. I think he's waking up."

Really? Was that why his bio-readings were suddenly spiking? Opening his eyes, moving his head around and breathing heavily? Oh, let's not forget trying to get up. "Damn it, Wilson!" I cursed. "He's not ready yet. Give him the sedative!"

For once, Wilson obeyed without question. I turned towards Shepard. He looked confused and bewildered, but I could tell he was trying to make sense of what was happening. Wondering where he was. That was a good sign. "Shepard—don't try to move," I said softly.

I grabbed his arm, which was flailing about, and gently pushed it down. "Just lie still. Try to stay calm."

He gave me an incredulous look, which was good—both because it displayed another sign of cognitive awareness and because it indicated he had some kind of common sense as to how ridiculous my platitudes were.

"Heart rate still climbing," Wilson muttered. "Brain activity is off the charts." He wiped a bead of sweat off his bald head. "Stats pushing into the red zone. It's not working!"

I pushed him away from the monitor to take a look for myself. I quickly digested the readings, determined the various options we could employ and calculated their most likely outcomes. "Another dose," I ordered, coming to a decision. "Now!"

Wilson immediately complied without a single protest or snide remark. If it wasn't for the fact that Shepard's life was on the line, I could get used to this new Wilson. I kept one eye on Shepard's stats and the other on Shepard himself. As the bio-readings began returning to normal range, Shepard's breathing evened out. I dimly heard Wilson reporting the patently obvious as Shepard's eyes began to close. They were brown. A dark, rich brown that seemed to hide... I didn't know what exactly, but they seemed to hide something within their depths.

Wilson's next words distracted me before I could analyze this observation any further: "That was too close. We almost lost him."

I turned back to Shepard. It was too late—his eyes had closed. Whatever mysteries they had held would remain lost to me, for now, because of Wilson's rambling. "I _told _you your estimates were off," I told him coldly. "Run the numbers again." Turning back towards Shepard, I saw him drift off to sleep. Satisfied that this latest crisis had been averted, I walked towards the exit. I paused before leaving the lab.

"Wilson?"

"Yes, Miranda?"

"All of our hard work and sacrifice was almost lost to your arrogance and incompetence," I said. "From now on, you won't perform a single test, sign off on a single form or give a single opinion without my permission. Understood?"

...

"_Understood?"_

"Yes. Ma'am."

My hearing, like everything else, was engineered to be perfect. This was why I heard his last retort; the one he thought was masked by the doors that had just hissed shut behind me.

"Bitch."

* * *

I never found out why Wilson betrayed us—yet another failure on my part. Why he hacked the mechs and set them loose to slaughter the men and women who'd given up everything to join Cerberus and fight for a greater cause. I can only speculate that the botched attempt to implant element zero nodules into Shepard—and the words we exchanged—acted as a catalyst. **(8)**

What was especially frustrating was that I didn't anticipate this scenario or recognize any warning signs. **(9)** In fact, the first indication that something was wrong was when one of the LOKI mechs marched into my office. This was definitely unusual—I'd programmed their IFF and patrol routines myself, as well as adding several behavioural subroutines of my own. So when it raised its weapon, I was already raising one arm to crush its armour with my biotics, while using the other arm to fry its circuits with an electromagnetic pulse from my omni-tool.

After the mech collapsed, I hurried over and grabbed its weapon before returning to my computer and tapping into the vid-cams. From what I could tell, all the mechs had suddenly turned on the human personnel. The scientists—being both untrained and unarmed—were being slaughtered. The human security staff was doing their best, but they were hopelessly outnumbered—a casualty of the organizational structure of the Lazarus Cell. It had always been our plan to use a human overseer to direct squads of mechs. This would reduce the number of mouths we'd have to feed as well as evade detection by the authorities by minimizing the number of personnel needed for the Lazarus Cell. Yes, there was the possibility of the mechs being hacked, which was why we'd taken such care to install a suite of security subroutines. Someone, however, had the skill and desire to cut right through them as if they didn't exist.

But I had other matters to worry about. With a quick command, I sealed my office so I wouldn't be disturbed by any more mechs. Then I opened a remote connection to the med-lab where Shepard was being stored, grateful that at least I had foreseen _something_. I took a few minutes of precious time to review his medical stats, even though I had done that very same thing two hours ago. Blood pressure, heart markers, liver functions, kidney functions—everything was within normal parameters for a man of Shepard's age. I had planned to keep him sedated for another few weeks to allow skin growth to cover up the scars caused by the implants, which were still glowing and blazing through the various epidermal layers. But, once again, that plan would have to be dropped. Accessing the med-lab's equipment, I turned off the sedative flows and injected a series of stimulants into Shepard's bloodstream.

While Shepard was being brought out of his chemically-induced coma, I skipped through the feeds from the vid-cams. Most of the Lazarus Cell—scientists and security personnel—were dead. Jacob was still alive, no doubt thanks to his training, his biotics and the pistol he insisted on carrying with him. Wilson was skulking around the server rooms, which seemed a bit odd—they weren't exactly near the med-labs or his quarters. I started to have a nagging suspicion about that, but I would have to analyze it at another time—Shepard was waking up.

Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, or, perhaps, because of them, I was looking forward to seeing how the so-called hero last when thrown into such a hazardous situation. At least he had a hardsuit and a pistol—Jacob had brought them in to sync their computers with Shepard's biometrics. He'd gotten distracted while talking to me about the latest human colony to inexplicably go dark and left the hardsuit and pistol behind when we went to review the relevant intelligence reports. I'd meant to scold him about that. In hindsight, that mistake had turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

Shepard soon proved that he was functional, at the very least. He smoothly adapted to thermal clip-enabled weapons and his tactical cloaking system despite having no prior training. He made use of cover rather than charging into danger like some idiot. He rationed his shots rather than blindly emptying his clips like some trigger-happy moron—or a soldier who didn't know that he no longer had access to a near-infinite amount of ammunition. Seeing that he didn't need as much attention as I'd initially feared, I began scouting ahead to feed him intel. The arrangement worked out quite well, for a time.

And then the vid-cams started to blink out, one by one. Even worse, a trio of mechs were making a bee-line straight for my office. If I needed proof that this wasn't a case of the mechs spontaneously and collectively going homicidal, this was it—someone had betrayed us. Someone had hacked into the mechs, overrode their programming and issued a new set of directives. Someone would pay.

My efforts to warn Shepard were in naught, as the comms cut out halfway through my message. At least I managed to begin a trace to determine who was responsible for this disaster. Then I headed for the door. I exited the office, only to run into the mechs. Three of them, as the vid-cams had indicated. Two to the left, one to the right, all clustered within a few metres of each other. My mind effortlessly calculated various combat scenarios before settling on the most efficient course of action:

I took one step to the left, positioning myself between two of the mechs, my hands whipping out to grab their pistols and push them down before they could get off a shot. With the same movement, my right foot lashed upward, catching the third mech in what passed for its jaw and knocking it to the ground. As I expected, the remaining two mechs stubbornly held onto their pistols, which meant they were off-balance when I abruptly swivelled around. It didn't take much to throw them to the ground on top of the third mech. While they were flailing about on the ground, I emptied a clip from one of the pistols. The resulting explosion took out all three mechs.

Satisfied that at least something had gone according to plan, I transferred all the thermal clips to one pistol—contrary to all the action vids you see on the extranet, it is _not _practical or effective to wield and fire a gun in each hand. I was just about to move out when my omni-tool pinged. The trace I had started in my office had just finished. Tapping my omni-tool, I scanned the holographic readouts with one eye while the other watched for incoming hostile mechs.

It was Wilson. He'd tried to mask his movements, but it was him.

Now I could try and hunt him down, but the Lazarus Station was a large—and increasingly dangerous—installation. Besides, I knew where he was going. Men like him: they wouldn't want to stay in a dangerous area any longer than they had to. Once his job was done, he'd try to leave—and there was only one way off this station. I just had to get there first so I could arrange a suitable greeting.

As I began jogging down the corridor, I realized how much pleasure I was going to get out of ending Wilson's miserable life. That was uncharacteristically undisciplined and unprofessional of me. Sloppy. Emotional, even.

So be it, I decided. I felt the need to indulge myself. Just this once.

* * *

Getting to the hangar bay wasn't as easy as you'd think. It seemed like I ran into every other mech on the way, all of whom had to be dealt with. As a result, I only got to the hangar bay seconds before Wilson. Naturally, my enhanced reflexes were more than up to the task of putting a bullet through his head before he could finish gawking.

Shepard didn't seem too fazed. Apparently, he had had some suspicions about Wilson all along. But he still had the presence of mind to pull out his pistol and point it at me. Up until that point, he'd been devouring me with his eyes—yes, I did see that. I am built to perfection, after all. The important thing was that he was demonstrating once again his ability to adapt to the present situation, not to mention the fact that he wasn't being led around by his... baser functions. Yet another sign that he might not be a complete fool after all. He also had more information about the circumstances—and the people behind his resurrection—than one might expect. All thanks to Jacob, who naturally couldn't keep his mouth shut. Knowing his past history with Cerberus cells, all of which had ended in violence, I braced myself for another attack. At the very least, I expected an outburst or some form of posturing over the supposed evils of Cerberus.

To my surprise, he did neither. Maybe he recognized that we brought him back from the dead, and thus deserved at least a little bit of gratitude. Maybe he'd bonded with Jacob somewhat after fighting through the Lazarus station alongside him. All I knew was that he just looked at me as if he wanted to ask a question. Or several of them. So I let him—a few minutes of time spent answering questions was certainly better than a few bullets being exchanged. His questions were reasonable, under the circumstances. It certainly lined up with personal logs from the men and women who'd served under him, which had indicated a healthy curiosity and interest in his surroundings and his colleagues. He did show some reticence in leaving with Cerberus operatives to go see the Illusive Man, but I pointed out that there was no other way off this station. After checking the veracity of my tale, he readily conceded that he didn't have any other viable options. No outburst, no temper tantrums, just a casual, albeit reluctant, acceptance of the facts. I'd suspected that he had a certain pragmatic and practical attitude, but to see it firsthand was quite illuminating.

He also expressed some concern in looking for survivors. One might think that it was an act. A half-hearted move to appease his conscience before running away. But would a poser go to the extra trouble of scanning for life-signs before departure? Maybe, if he was a smart one. The only thing I knew for sure was that the move lined up with the theoretical Shepard I had envisioned, the one I'd developed in my mind after reading all his official log entries and reports, as well as the personal logs of his subordinates. But any man or woman with a decent level of intelligence will tell you that there's a difference between theory and reality.

And yet here Shepard stood in front of me. Living, breathing, talking and asking lots of questions. From what I saw before Wilson's tinkering knocked out the vid-cams, Shepard's combat skills measured up to all the reports. And his concern for others tracked with all the flowery compliments lavished upon him by his superiors and subordinates. All this data seemed to confirm that we'd brought Shepard—the _right _Shepard—back from the dead.

Jacob would have scoffed at the need for all this analysis, had I admitted it to him. He seemed convinced that Shepard was the genuine article. Not surprising—he always was a staunch supporter, though I'll admit his experiences fighting through the Lazarus station alongside him lent a certain credibility to his opinion. Still, I needed more proof than a simple point-and-shoot account or my brief observations to conclusively confirm that the Lazarus Project had been a success. Unfortunately, I only had time to ask a couple questions. Fortunately, his answers—both their content as well as _how _he answered them—assuaged my concerns. For now.

As we flew towards Minuteman Station, I found myself wondering if the Illusive Man had any detailed plans to use Shepard in the fight against whoever was abducting human colonists. Part of me hoped he didn't. If the last two years were any indication, plans tended to go off-kilter, if not fall apart entirely, where Shepard was concerned.

* * *

_(1): While Miranda's summary on the various kinds of heroes are coloured by personal bias and prejudice, there is a string of truth behind them. _

_(2): Shepard would undoubtedly pick the latter, with particular emphasis on the luck that got him into these situations in the first place._

_(3): For obvious reasons, Shepard was never able to tell us himself how his body was recovered. This account answers a lot of questions. _

_(4): Miranda displays a notable lack of anti-alien bias, and much more respect towards non-humans, despite her affiliation with Cerberus. While she implies that her motivations are strictly out of pragmatism, there might be a note of compassion as well._

_(5): It is ironic, after all of Miranda's efforts to minimize the amount of implantation in Shepard's body, that Shepard would subsequently research, develop and apply any upgrades he could find that would strengthen or enhance his body. _

_(6): It's ironic that Miranda would go to such lengths to escape the control of her father, only to try and exert a similar amount of control over Shepard. It would take a great deal of time, however, before she realized the significance of that action. _

_(7): Dr. Peter Wilson was the only scientist who Miranda did not acknowledge by his title. This may reflect her antipathy, conscious or otherwise, towards him. _

_(8): Wilson was actually working for the Shadow Broker and had timed his move to increase the expected profit margins, as a living Shepard could command a higher price than a burned and shattered corpse. The fact that the betrayal came shortly after his argument with Miranda was likely a coincidence._

_(9): Readers may already be aware of Miranda's tendency to blame herself whenever things went wrong, regardless of how justified her feelings might have been. _


	2. Miranda versus the Mystery

**Miranda Versus the Mystery**

Shepard was back—and not just his body. His memories, his experiences, his personality... it all seemed to have been restored. I had done it. Despite all the odds, all the obstacles, all the disruptions, I had actually done it. Not that I would admit to having any doubts out loud, of course.

Even if I had been willing to admitthem, I wouldn't have. I had more pressing matters: making sure the new Normandy ran as efficiently as possible, ensuring we stay on track and complete the Mission, that sort of thing. Foremost on my mind was the mystery of one Commander Shepard, the so-called hero. What kind of hero was he?

There was always the possibility that he'd become the hero simply because he was reckless and stupid enough to barge into situations without looking where he was going. His record did suggest that he ran into more trouble in any given day than most people did in a decade. And he did get killed. But that was quickly disproven within the first ten minutes on Freedom's Progress. Shepard was very careful about entering potentially hostile situations. Always looking for cover—both for us and where enemies might be hiding. Always being careful about how much ammunition we had left—

Actually, that was one interesting thing about Shepard—he was very, _very _serious when it came to rationing thermal clips. It was one thing to exercise fire discipline and discourage unnecessary shooting. Refreshing, really, given the penchant for soldiers and mercs alike to go through clips like they were a credit a piece. Boys and their toys, I suppose. Or maybe some subconscious attempt at compensation. Who knows?

Whatever the reason, Shepard seemed to go to the other extreme. Sometimes, I found myself thinking he was reluctant or afraid to shoot. After some study, though, I concluded that this reticence was actually his way of adapting to the new realities of modern combat, which had changed significantly from two years ago. Back then, guns simply calculated the mass needed for a slug to reach a target given distance, gravity and atmospheric pressure, shaved the appropriate mass off an ammo block and fired the shot. This resulted in a near-infinite amount of ammunition, at the expense of heat buildup. The introduction of thermal clips effectively reversed the situation, eliminating heat buildup at the expense of finite ammunition.

Shepard's policy, however unorthodox it might have been, ensured that we made the most of a limited resource and never had to worry about running low on ammunition. Which might also be why he actively encouraged, if not preferred, the use of other, more non-conventional, weapons. From electromagnetic pulses and plasma rounds to the wide variety of offensive biotic techniques, he made frequent use of these weapons, which were a renewable resource and one that, under Shepard's direction, could be more effective than an individual bullet. As a result, we often found ourselves leaving behind more thermal clips from the bodies of our enemies than we 'liberated.' **(1)**

His caution in not using more ammunition than necessary was also reflected in the care he took to minimize the number of fire-fights he got himself—and, by extension, the rest of us—into. That isn't to say he would only fire if fired upon, like some naive fool with outdated notions of honourable conduct. No, he was fully willing to open fire first—by his own hand, if need be. And he certainly had no compunction against inflicting the maximum amount of damage possible when the situation presented itself.

Yet he managed to defuse almost as many situations before guns were drawn or blood was shed. Shepard had a knack for persuading potential hostiles that he meant them no harm and that they should stand down. He could convince them that he understood their situation and could empathize with their predicament.

Perhaps he could. He certainly had no problem working with Jacob or I. No grandiose declarations or statements that a hero could never sleep—work, _work _with the enemy. **(2)** He occasionally brought up his concerns about Cerberus, but that was in private. He never vocally lambasted us for our supposed sins or urged us to recognize the error of our ways. In fact, the only public dissent he displayed was his insistence on correcting people who said that he worked 'for' Cerberus. He preferred to say he was working 'with' Cerberus, much to my irritation.

Shepard never deliberately sent either of us into harm's way, either. If anything, he did everything he could to 'watch our backs,' as the parlance goes, and expected that we would do the same. Which we did, of course. Jacob did it because he believed in what Shepard stood for, almost as much as he believed that Cerberus had more potential to advance humanity's interest than the politics-laden bureaucracy of the Alliance. I did it because Shepard's presence was needed to unify the admittedly eclectic group the Illusive Man had hand-picked, hone it to a razor's edge and turn it against our enemies.

So Shepard wasn't the reckless, testosterone-impaired kind of hero who was far too eager for a fight. And he wasn't the kind of hero who was too caught up in his fantasy world of good versus evil to recognize the reality of the situation.

Maybe he was the most dangerous kind of hero. The poser. The manipulator. The kind who worked the angles and planned for the long-term. It made sense: why else would he go around each and every deck and say hello—if not talk—to every single person, two or three times a day? Because he was trying to sow the seeds for some kind of coup. Either that, or he had way too much time on his hands. This would be my fault—I just had to take care of everything, even certain duties that a normal executive officer wouldn't have to do. But then, I never was normal.

So I tapped into the surveillance records from the vid-cams scattered throughout the ship and began tracking Shepard's activities. I could have had Chambers do it, as she was the only other person who had security clearance to access those records. She was also the only one who regularly made as many trips throughout the Normandy as Shepard did. These daily sojourns were conducted as part of her duties as ship's psychologist, not that anybody else knew that. To the majority of the crew, Chambers—or 'Kelly'—was just being friendly. And happy. And ridiculously effervescent, exuberant and vivacious. In fact, there was a time when I thought she was secretly administering herself with every known pharmaceutical on a daily—if not hourly—basis. So I obtained samples without her knowing to run drug tests. She passed them all. Her cheerfulness was just part of who she was. There ought to be a law.

In any case, some things you have to do yourself. Because no one else could do it properly. Well, not entirely by myself—I did have EDI do some of the initial searches to narrow down the number of logs I'd have to sift through. Logs where Shepard was talking to people, key phrases, that sort of thing. I spent hours and hours poring through each and every conversation, parsing every word, listening to every emphasis, straining to pick up any code that was being exchanged.

All I got was a bunch of useless information about the crew. If there was a secret code or devious campaign being waged, I couldn't see it. I'd failed. _Again._ I even tried enlisting EDI's help. It found nothing. I told it to try again. Same result. I may have suggested it wasn't up to the task. It may have given a response that was as cold and icy as its programming permitted. Not that I would care. Why would I? It was just an AI. One of the most advanced and sophisticated AIs in the galaxy, mind you. One who had failed. Like me. Which left only one other option.

Gritting my teeth, I opened a comm channel to Chambers' console. "Ms. Chambers? Come to my office. Please."

I paused after closing the channel. Now why did I add that last word? I'd never used it before. Mostly because I never had to. In the past, I'd always given my orders and expected that they would be followed out. More efficient that way. So where did that nod to social convention come from?

Before I could give it any further thought, Chambers entered my office. "Operator Lawson?"

She'd remembered my title. Most people forgot and called me by my surname alone. Which was fine with me: only a few select people had earned the right to call me by my first name anyway. The Illusive Man was one of them. Jacob was another. Shepard... I suppose Shepard had by this point, though he'd been calling me Miranda from the beginning. For some reason, I never got around to correcting him. Too many other things on my mind, I suppose. "It's about Commander Shepard," I started.

The glazed, dreamy look that suddenly swept over her face told me it was a good thing I hadn't had Kelly study Shepard's movements. She might be brilliant at her job, but she did tend to get infatuated with men (and women—I believe she spent a good month or so drooling over me before she found a new object for her unrequited affection) at the drop of the proverbial hat. Right now, that target appeared to be Shepard. Which meant asking her to glean any information from his recorded conversations would be a waste of time.

Luckily, I'd thought of another way to get the information I required. "Ms. Chambers, I understand that Commander Shepard has been making his way around the ship."

"Oh yes," Chambers replied, bobbing her head enthusiastically. "Three times a day, unless he's on a mission. Then it's only one or two."

"And what has he been doing?"

"Talking to the crew."

"Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why is he making such an effort to go to every deck every day?" I asked. "Why is he going out of his way to talk to everyone? Why is he doing whatever it is he's doing?"

Chambers gave me a look. I recognized that look. It was the one I normally gave to people who I thought were being particularly dense or stupid—which, to be honest, was most of them. It was a bit jarring to be on the receiving end. "Operator Lawson," she said, somehow managing not to speak like she was dumbing it down for my benefit. "He does it because he wants to get to know the men and women under his command. Because he wants them to know that they aren't obeying—and potentially dying for—some faceless commander that Cerberus brought back from the grave."

That couldn't... that's not...

That...

...almost made sense.

* * *

Despite all the fawning and staring, Chambers had actually managed to acquire a fair amount of intel, which corroborated my own observations. It seemed he really did spend his time talking to people, asking whether everything was operating within normal parameters, seeing how they were doing, wondering if they had any issues or concerns. Everything you'd expect from a captain—even if he technically didn't have the rank of one. Either he was being sincere, or it was one heck of an acting job.

A tentative answer to that conundrum came during our first visit to Illium. Shepard had been wandering around when he bumped into an asari. No surprise there—Illium _was _an asari world. But this particular asari seemed rather agitated.

"Watch yourself if you go in there," she warned. "Some human is causing trouble. He's demanding that I sign the place over to him!"

"I'll be careful," Shepard said.

"Or you could kill him," the asari suggested slyly. "You know, legally. In self-defence. I'd make a really good witness."

The smile on her face indicated the asari was joking. Sort of. She clearly wouldn't shed any tears if this human did meet an unfortunate end.

"Failing that, I'm hooking up security cams," the asari continued when Shepard didn't take the bait. "That crap might fly on Omega, but this is Illium. If he or anybody else causes trouble, I'll have their asses arrested."

Not surprisingly, Shepard was quick to investigate. More and more, I'd found that he was drawn to this sort of thing. It was like he had an obsession that compelled him to track down every sob story for some reason. Or maybe he was just a magnet for them—God knows he had no problems attracting trouble. Rolling my eyes, I followed him and the squad up a flight of stairs and into a bar. It didn't take long to find the human in question. A blond man, dressed up in a N7 hardsuit. "You're really holding out on me?" he asked out loud as we approached, hands on his hips as he glared at the asari bartender. "I'm a man on the edge! I've got nothing to lose!"

"Uh huh," the bartender said wearily.

As we got closer, I noticed two things. One, the hardsuit seemed a little shinier than most hardsuits. And the man was moving with much more mobility than you'd expect. Which suggested that that hardsuit might not be combat-grade. Two, Shepard's face seemed to slacken ever-so-slightly in shock. As if he was remembering something.

"I'll do anything to get the job done!" the blond man insisted. "I'll go all the way without a second thought!"

"Uh huh," the bartender sighed.

"You want to see how far I'll go?" the man demanded. "I learned how to shove a gun in people's faces from—"

The man stopped as he saw one of the security monitors behind the bar. He paused, stared and turned around. "C—Commander Shepard?" he stammered.

"Keelah, is it—is it _him_?" Tali whispered.

"Oh, by the spirits," Garrus chuckled. "This should be good."

Shepard just stared at the man. A hint of panic and resignation was in his eyes, along with a bit of recognition. I was no stranger to such things: I saw the exact same look in the front man I used to contact the Illusive Man. More importantly, I wasn't the only one who saw that. "Hey," the bartender called out, "if you know this idiot, can you rein him in before I slap his ass with a singularity?"

"Shepard?" the man gasped, positively bouncing on his heels. "Is it really you? It's me! Conrad Verner! We met on the Citadel? I wanted to become a Spectre?"

He what?

"Oh, uh, and then you shoved a gun in my face!" Verner continued. "You showed me what it meant to be truly extreme." Verner looked skyward, a reverent look on his face. "I learned that lesson well."

That seemed a little extreme for Shepard. Maybe our psychological profile had missed one or two things.

"Hey!" Tali gasped. "That didn't happen!"

"Clearly he thinks otherwise," Garrus shrugged. "Not that I'm surprised."

Then again, maybe not. "Perhaps you could fill the rest of us in?" I asked.

Tali was still quivering in indignation, so Garrus took over. "Conrad Verner. Self-styled biggest fan of Commander Shepard. He kept lurking by one of the markets in the Wards, so we kept running into him whenever Shepard returned to the Citadel to do some shopping. First time, he asked for an autograph. Then he wanted a picture. Then he wanted his recommendation to become the second human Spectre. Oddly enough, Shepard turned down that last request."

"By _talking_ to him," Tali hissed. "He _never _pointed a gun at him." **(3) **

"But then, Verner never had the strongest grasp on reality," Garrus said dryly. "I guess we shouldn't be too surprised that he reinterpreted that incident."

I returned my gaze to Verner who was... swaggering would be the best way to describe it. Yes, he was swaggering up and down the bar. "So you're alive, huh? I hear it goes like that in the biz. Why don't you sit back and watch how it's done? I've got some asses to kick."

I saw Shepard's hand twitch. It was subtle, too subtle for most people. But a lifetime of training and genetically enhanced eyesight told me otherwise. It was clear that Shepard had briefly considered the option of smacking some sense into this idiot. Or punching him. Or maybe even shooting him. Instead, Shepard plastered a—mostly real—smile on his face. "Conrad... are you trying to act like me?"

"Act like you?" Conrad snorted. "Are you crazy? I'm nothing like you!"

At least he had one thing right.

"I'm not a Spectre working for the Council! I'm on my own, backed only by my wits and my nerves!"

His what and his what now?

"No rules, no laws, just whatever it takes to get the job done! I'm not like you at all!"

If only he knew how correct he was. To his credit, Shepard managed to continue without missing a beat. "How did you get that hardsuit, anyway?"

"Oh they make some pretty convincing replicas these days," Verner said earnestly, "if you're willing to pay. Getting the whole getup was pretty expensive, but my wife was really supportive. She even paid for my shuttle fare off-world!"

The bartender threw up her hands in frustration and shook her head. It was all I could do to avoid doing the same. It was hard enough keeping a straight face when various members of the squad were snorting or shaking with laughter at this oblivious dimwit.

"So... you just wander the galaxy righting wrongs?" Shepard asked.

"Hey, don't say it like that!" Verner pouted. "I talk to people, you know? Ask them if they have big problems that only I can solve."

It suddenly occurred to me that this sounded an awful lot like Shepard.

"You'd be surprised how many people are just waiting for someone to talk to them."

Still sounded like Shepard.

"Sometimes I poke through crates, too. You know, for extra credits."

_Definitely _Shepard. **(4) **

Speaking of whom, Shepard was in the process of rubbing a hand over his eyes, no doubt hoping that it would help make sense of this fool. It didn't. "How have you been doing all of this?" he asked, a hint of frustration entering his voice. "Any decent security system will detect that you aren't in the military—_any _military—much less a Spectre or part of a Spectre's squad."

Verner furrowed his brows, equally frustrated that his hero and idol wasn't taking him all that seriously. "I just say that I'm deep-cover and don't appear on systems. I'm doing the best I can, okay?"

To anyone else, Shepard inhaled and exhaled, just a natural part of breathing. I, however, could tell that he was trying to muster some shred of patience before he said something that would send this delusional imbecile over the edge. "Conrad," Shepard sighed, "do you have _any _actual combat training?"

Let's be clear: getting beaten up and running away crying doesn't count. Though it would display some common sense that had been sorely lacking thus far.

"I'm saving the galaxy, Shepard!" Verner bit out. "I don't have time for training! Don't you get it? You were a big jerk, but you saved the galaxy and showed other races that humans mattered... and then you _died! _The galaxy needed someone like you, Shepard. We all did. I had to do something."

That was the first thing Verner had said that actually made sense. Regardless of how or why he did it, Shepard's actions had showcased the impact and potential of humanity, on both a personal and galactic level. His death at the hands of the Collectors had an equally pivotal impact. Several people had reacted differently as a result. Garrus had tried to go back to C-Sec and attempted to make a difference as a Spectre before moving to Omega and driving three separate mercenary groups to despair. Kaidan Alenko had run back to his Alliance masters like the loyal lapdog he was. I had spent the last two years leading the ultimately-successful effort to resurrect Shepard.

I suddenly realized that Shepard was responding to Verner. "Why were you trying to get the deed to this place?" he was asking.

"This place is actually a front for a red sand dealer," Verner blurted out excitedly. "I need to take it over to crack the ring!"

"What?" the bartender frowned. "Who the hell told you that?"

"The owner of that weapons store near the carport!" Verner replied obliviously. "She's an undercover cop! She told me about it when I introduced myself."

I had to recite the periodic table of elements to distract myself from the urge to smack this fool. Hard. Even if this was true, the fact that he would blurt it out to a potential participant in this supposed front... _UGH! _

It seemed I wasn't the only one who was frustrated with this buffoon, judging by the glare the bartender levelled at him. "Listen, crap-for-brains: first, we don't sell red sand. Second, red sand is legal on Illium! You just need a license!"

"But—"

"I'll talk to this undercover cop and figure out what's going on," Shepard smoothly interjected.

"Okay," Verner said enthusiastically. "Just let me know if you need any help, Shepard!"

The dolt walked to the corner of the bar and assumed what he must have thought was a heroic pose. We ignored him. "Thanks for taking care of that crazy guy," the bartender said to Shepard. "Saves me having to beat him to death with his own spine. That makes the other customers nervous. Plus, if I kill annoying customers, it usually causes property damage. _That _comes out of my pay."

"We wouldn't want that," Shepard agreed with a straight face.

"Anyway, this is Eternity, and I'm Aethyta, asari matriarch and bartender. Get you anything?"

I wasn't too surprised when Shepard chose to ask about Aethyta instead of getting a drink. Another unusual characteristic of Shepard's—the intensive, exhaustive curiosity that he displayed towards uncovering each and every facet of his crew was extended towards, well, everybody and everything. On the battlefield, he spent just as much time exploring every nook and cranny as he did fighting off mercs. Off the battlefield, he devoted equal amounts of time to wandering around, shopping for upgrades, and asking random people if they needed help. Often with this silent little grin that never appeared on his lips, but shone in his eyes. A side benefit of his annoyingly persistent curiosity is that he tended to learn more than the average soldier, which occasionally could be turned to our benefit. "Most matriarchs I've met or heard of tend to serve as honoured advisors," he said neutrally.

"Right," Aethyta nodded. "Which I do here at this bar. I know, not what you'd expect."

That would be understating things.

"But nobody on Thessia wanted to listen to my wise counsel, so here I am."

"You didn't seem fazed by Verner," Shepard commented. Looking back at the twit, I saw him—oh dear—I saw him take out a gun and try to twirl it like a cowboy in one of those old vids. He lost his grip on it, watched as it twirled up in the air, drop back down and bop him on the head.

"Dad was a krogan who fought in the Rachni Wars," Aethyta replied. "Mom fought in the Krogan Rebellions. I've pretty much seen it all."

"Your dad fought in the Rachni Wars?" Shepard repeated.

"Yeah, when he was young," Aethyta nodded. "Loved showing off his war scars. Krogan think they're sexy. Me, I go for asses."

She wasn't the only one. I'd seen six hundred and twenty-nine instances of people checking out my ass since we'd landed on Illium.

"When I was a girl, he'd tell me about landing on this poison-filled world and stomping a rachni queen into muck..." Aethyta shook her head, grabbed a rag and started wiping the bar. "The scientists say all that stuff about us getting genetic material from the father is crap," she said, quickly changing the topic. "Seems like I got a bit of his mouth, though."

"And your mother fought in the Krogan Rebellions?" Shepard asked.

"I don't know whether she 'fought.' She scouted, sniped a few people and blew up a couple of space stations."

Another account that sounded eerily familiar.

"She'd put the old commando leathers on for special nights with Dad. Goddess, that was embarrassing," Aethyta shuddered.

That brought up an interesting point, one that Shepard was quick to bring up. "If your father was a krogan and your mother fought in the _Krogan _Rebellions, didn't that cause tension?"

"They didn't meet until a few hundred years after the turians put the boot in with the damn genophage. No offense, babe," Aethyta added for Garrus's benefit.

"None taken," Garrus replied.

"As far as either one knew, they were both just warriors. Dad boasted. Mom stayed quiet."

Men tend to do that. Makes things both easier and harder on women.

"Mom was a matriarch herself, and Dad was near-on a thousand, when the truth finally came out."

"What happened when he found out?"

"I was about a hundred, shaking my ass in some sleazy bar," Aethyta sighed. "They got me on the link, told me that they were going to have it out, and made me promise to love whichever one survived. Turned out to be damn easy, since neither one did. Family, huh?" Aethyta laughed bitterly. "What a kick in the quad." **(5) **

Clearly the centuries since hadn't done much to ease the pain of that memory. Shepard sensed that as well, smoothly moving on to another question. "You were about to tell me why a matriarch is spending her days in a bar serving drinks?"

"It's better than what most other matriarchs are doing," she scowled. "Look at that screw-up with Saren and his geth a few years back! The matriarchs did nothing to strengthen the Citadel Fleet. No new ships, no upgrades, not even a few extra military exercises. It's no wonder that the Fleet was hanging bare-assed in space when Saren's geth started shooting. If not for you humans, we would've bought it right there. **(6)** And I warned them! Told people on Thessia what was coming, and they didn't want to hear it."

"What didn't they want to hear?" Shepard asked.

"That art and philosophy and political prowess wasn't gonna cut it," Aethyta said bluntly, her voice dripping with derision as she listed the usual asari pastimes. "We can't go a single asari lifetime without some big war breaking out. We need to get our daughters working earlier, not spending their wild maiden years stripping their clothes off or fighting in merc bands. But no one wanted to listen. And when I started talking about making new mass relays ourselves, they laughed the blue off my ass. So now I serve drinks."

"Their loss," Shepard shrugged.

"Nice try, but you still have to pay for your drinks like everyone else," Aethyta snorted. "But if you want to start a tab, maybe I'll break out the good stuff."

"Thanks, but I'm on duty," Shepard laughed. "One more question: what's it like, living for nearly a thousand years?"

"Violent. Wars break out, colonies get destroyed. Sometimes you hear good news, like that colony on Feros surviving. **(7)** That's the exception, though. Most nights, you find peace in whatever arms will hold you. Turian, elcor, hanar... even had a pureblood daughter. I was the father. Didn't work out. **(8) **

"Then one day you wake up, your figure's gotten matriarchal, and everyone else is too young to remember how the quarians looked inside those suits."

Not surprisingly, Tali was nodding sympathetically with that last comment.

"I didn't know," Shepard offered. "Thanks for telling me about that. All of it."

"That's what I'm here for, babe. Get you anything else?"

Shepard shook his head. "No, I gotta figure this 'undercover cop' thing out before Verner gets any more ideas."

"Good idea," Aethyta agreed. "Hopefully you can sort it all out—hey!" Grunt was reaching for some bar snacks. "Don't eat the nuts in the red bowls. They're for turians and quarians. You'll get cramps."

Grunt looked dubious, but relented after Shepard shot him a look. We headed off to find the merchant Verner had mentioned. It turned out she was the merchant for the local Gateway Personal Defence kiosk. Shepard spent a few minutes browsing the inventory—which were predictably of high quality and even higher price—before turning to the merchant.

"Can I help you with something?" she asked.

Shepard assumed this... this look. Like he was trying to be sneaky and was doing a really bad job at it. "Uh, yeah. See, I talked to an old friend? Conrad Verner? You told him that the Eternity Lounge was selling red sand."

A look of realization spread over the merchant's face. "Oh, you're Conrad's friend. Yes, that place is _really _dangerous," she nodded solemnly, the tone in her voice shifting to one that an adult might use for a child. Understandable: anyone who was a friend of Verner might easily be mistaken for being simple. "I should know. I'm an undercover cop. Did you get me the deed to the bar? I need the deed to, uh, stop the red sand dealers."

I'll admit part of me thought Shepard would drop the act and confront her. Tell her that he was on to her little game, that he wasn't that stupid and she should stop jerking the nitwit around by the nose. Instead, he chose a sneakier and much more satisfying route:

"I softened up the bar owner, but you need to go in and finish them off."

"Really?" the merchant asked, barely restraining her incredulity and excitement. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," he assured her. "You just need to close the deal. Shouldn't be a problem—the owner's a pushover. Go in, be tough. She'll hand the deed right over."

"Well... great!" the merchant beamed. "Here, I'll set you up for a discount." She turned around and quickly created an account for Shepard before running off. "Thanks for the help," she called out over her shoulder.

"We are going to follow soon, right?" Kasumi asked. "Don't want to miss the finale."

I looked at Shepard...

...whose eyes were greedily poring through the inventory.

Oh dear.

"Yeah, yeah," Shepard was saying absently. "Give her a little head start first. In the meantime, will you look at this? Submachine gun upgrade, assault rifle upgrade—ooh! Would you look at that skin weave augmentation!"

Honestly, it was like watching a kid in a candy store.

We managed to pry him away after he bought several items. To be fair, all the upgrades would prove to be extremely useful. At the time, all I could think was that if he drooled over one more toy, I would have to... to... oh, I don't know! Something!

Thankfully, I never had to imagine what I would do, as Shepard was eager to see what would happen when the merchant tried to 'buy the deed.' We made it back just in the nick of time. "Damn it, this is just a misunderstanding!" the merchant protested as a pair of cops closed in on her.

"Tell it to the judge," the owner snapped. "My surveillance vids caught your extortion attempt from four different angles."

"I was misled," the merchant whined. "I was told that _you_ had agreed to sell!"

"Take her away," the owner ordered the cops, "before I have my bartender throw her out."

After the cops dragged the merchant away in handcuffs, the owner left. Verner stumbled up to us. "Wh-what happened?" he asked dumbfounded. "The undercover cop from the weapons kiosk just got arrested."

"She wasn't a cop," Shepard corrected him. "She was an deep-cover operative from a terrorist sleeper cell."

She what?

"I'd never have found her if it wasn't for you."

"Really?"

Really?

"Really," Shepard nodded. "You did a great job, Conrad. But the next time, you might not be so lucky. Now please, go home. I'll take it from here."

"Can do, Shepard," Verner nodded. "And thanks. It's really good to have you back."

As the idiot walked away, all I could think of was that Shepard couldn't be the manipulative liar who pretended to be a hero. To lie on missions or when dealing with important issues, that was one thing. To lie on lesser matters, such as Verner and his self-appointed mission—even if it did score us some valuable upgrades at discount prices—was another thing entirely. It was still possible, mind you. But increasingly unlikely. Particularly given the mounting evidence of Shepard's concerns for his squad, his crew and random passerbys. That level of consistency just _couldn't _be faked.

So I was back to square one. I'd eliminated all the options—well, that wasn't entirely accurate. I still had the hero with a divine fool's luck option. But I'd already given him the benefit of the doubt and eliminated that choice. I wasn't about to revisit them again.

At least, that was the plan before we went to Corang.

* * *

Located in the Verr system, Corang was known for its high density and active plate tectonics, which suggested a high internal heat fueled by a high concentration of heavy and radioactive elements. Core samples collected by probes confirmed this, but its distance from the nearest mass relay system made mining operations impractical and unprofitable until the last three years.

We had gone there to recover some artifacts uncovered by one of our science teams, as well as any clues to the whereabouts of a missing scientist. **(9)** Unfortunately, what might have started as a simple retrieval mission quickly became more complicated when we detected geth signatures on the planet's surface, including several armature-class units.

Having narrowly survived tangling with a colossus on foot when recruiting Tali, none of us were eager to repeat that encounter. So Shepard had Mr. Moreau drop us off in the Hammerhead.

"_Scanning for mission objectives," _the Hammerhead VI told us. _"Mission objectives located. Alert: geth units detected."_

That warning was hardly necessary, what with the four geth troopers shooting at us. Normally that wouldn't be a problem. They were only using assault rifles. Unfortunately, the Hammerhead sacrificed shield capability and any significant form of armour in favour of constant fire—thanks to its built-in heat sinks—and sheer speed. This shouldn't be considered as a design flaw: it was imagined as a mobile rapid-response vehicle that could deliver both infantry and heavy weapons support. Unfortunately, most people who had occasion to use it in the field tended to regard the trade-offs as a bit too much. As a result, it had earned the less-than-flattering nickname of 'floating glass cannon' or FGC.

I saw Shepard move a hand towards the cannon controls, while the other steered us out of the line of fire. He paused for a moment, then gripped the steering wheel with both hands. I turned to look at him. What I saw in his eyes sent a chill down my spine. It wasn't a look of bleak despair, nor was it a haunted gaze. I didn't see a blank stare or any indication that he was hallucinating. There was no sign of anger or irrational need for vengeance clouding his vision. No, what I saw in his eyes was a certain glint. A telltale sign...

...of pure, unadulterated mischievous glee.

We all jerked back as the Hammerhead leapt forward. "Shepard," Jacob managed as we drew closer and closer to the geth. "What are you do—gah!"

The Hammerhead hit one of the geth, which splayed across the front window like a giant synthetic bug, then flew beyond the range of the remaining geth and their weapons. Once Shepard slowed down, the geth fell prey to the laws of momentum, flying from the Hammerhead into the nearby rock face. It fell to the ground, twitched for a moment, then lay still.

"Well, that was... different," Kasumi managed.

"What're we gonna do about the other geth?" Zaeed wanted to know. "Bad idea to leave enemies behind where they can sneak up on you."

Shepard must have had the same thought, because he was turning the Hammerhead around. I noticed that he wasn't even bothering to prime the Hammerhead's weapons. "Shepard," I said warily, "you wouldn't be doing what I think you're doing."

He was. We all jerked back as the Hammerhead flew back towards the geth. Unfortunately, there was a piece of debris in the way. Not a large one, but sizable enough to deflect our approach vector. As a result, we wound up skirting past the geth without hitting a single one. The geth, on the other hand, chose a much more conventional method of attack. As a result, they successfully scored several direct hits—and set off the damage alarms. "Shepard!" Tali shouted urgently. "What are you doing? You have guns—use them!"

Ignoring this rather sound advice, Shepard turned around again and tried again. This time he managed to hit two of the geth. One of them flew into a rock. The other bounced off the very same rock and skidded forward for another hundred metres or so.

"Shepard," I called out urgently. "You might not be aware of this, but the Hammerhead is _on fire_."

Fortunately, Shepard recognized what that meant and decided to take cover behind some more debris until the self-repair mechanisms had fixed the damage. Unfortunately, Shepard's next move was to run over the last geth, which set off the damage alarms again. **(10)**

Once the din had died down, we moved towards the first survey site, located on an elevated platform. Sure enough, there was a mobile research site set up there. It looked like we could download the data to the Hammerhead's computers remotely.

"_Warning: geth dropship approaching."_

Of course, we had to deal with the geth first. Three geth troopers and a geth colossus plummeted from the dropship onto the research site.

"Oh no," was all Garrus said, clearly anticipating Shepard's next move. I had come to the same conclusion myself. Rather than wasting my breath, I just reached down and double-checked that the seatbelts were tightly fastened.

Sure enough, Shepard boosted the Hammerhead on the platform seconds before the geth landed. Accelerating forward, he rammed into the colossus and drove it to its knees, its sheer bulk the only thing shielding us from the incoming weapons fire. Manoeuvring around the colossus, he drove into two of the geth troopers, sending them flying off the platform before following suit. Once he confirmed that the impact—and landing—had destroyed the geth, he flew back onto the platform and repeated the tactic with the remaining geth trooper. I found myself wondering what he would do with the colossus. We'd established that the Hammerhead could definitely make use of its speed to fly circles around it, and that a good impact would knock it over, but it would still remain very much intact and functional.

That didn't stop Shepard from getting back onto the platform and ramming the colossus again. Then he backed up and drove into the toppled colossus again. And again. And again. He repeated this process until the colossus fell off the platform. It stumbled shakily back to its feet, paused...

...then collapsed with a loud squawk. I suppose it had had enough.

"That's it?" Grunt pouted. "We just got started! Can we run over some more geth?"

"Sure thing," Shepard agreed.

"Woohoo!"

Ignoring the glares and pointed looks I was shooting his way, Shepard retrieved the artifact from the first survey site and moved on. We soon found ourselves at a cliff face. Beyond it was a yellow lake filled with highly concentrated acid, strong enough to corrode right through the Hammerhead—and us—in a matter of seconds. **(11)** A few patches of rock acted as narrow islands, which we could use to hopscotch to the second survey site. Beyond the site lay the wreckage of some kind of industrial complex. Of course, that site was guarded by geth. Of course, the cliff face was also guarded by geth—two more troopers. Of course, Shepard had to plow into one, sending it careening into the acid at terminal velocity.

Of course, Shepard then had to fly the Hammerhead back up the cliff face so he could deal with the second trooper in a similar fashion. This one bounced across the acid lake like a skipping stone before succumbing to the acid. Grunt was positively giddy by this point.

Following a reading from the Hammerhead's sensors, Shepard proceeded to mine a small platinum deposit from one of the islands. A momentary blip of what passed for him as normal behaviour. Then he started an attack run. His first pass knocked a geth destroyer into the acid, while the return pass took out one of the geth troopers. To everybody's surprise—including Shepard's, judging from the look on his face—the second pass actually sent the colossus flying off the survey site and into the industrial complex. Not surprisingly, the dual impacts were enough to take out the colossus. Just to be sure, though, Shepard nudged the colossus into the acid. Then he sent the last geth trooper flying into the acid before acquiring the second artifact.

Shepard continued to use this unorthodox tactic to deal with the majority of geth opponents. The lone exception were the remaining colossi we encountered—who were not on any platforms or near any acid and thus had to be taken out by repeated gunfire after knocking them to their knees—and a trio of rocket drones—who were flying above us and thus couldn't be rammed. While we were ultimately successful, it was not without cost. Garrus had been grinding his mandibles throughout the entire mission. Kasumi had a death-grip on her armrests and had developed a nervous tick. Jacob was white as a sheet, which was impressive given his skin tone. Tali was wearing out her air filters with all her hyperventilating.

And I? I had a pounding headache, both from the stress of watching the Hammerhead catch fire twelve times as well as from listening to the damage alarms blaring in my ear.

As we returned to the Normandy, Grunt's whoops of joy and excitement filling the air, I was forced to reconsider certain assumptions. Maybe I was premature in eliminating the reckless hero option. If not...

If not, then the only remaining choice was the divine fool's option.

I wasn't sure which option frightened me more.

* * *

_(1): Shepard himself intimated that his particular style of combat was chosen for the precise reasons that Miranda elucidates so clearly. _

_(2): Interesting slip of the tongue there. Even more interesting that Miranda did not go back and edit that particular slip out of her log entry. _

_(3): Readers may recall that Garrus and Tali had the correct account of events._

_(4): I concur. _

_(5): The bartender's origins would explain her use of that particular expression, one usually used amongst krogan. _

_(6): While the Asari Republics did have their own navy—most notably the Second and Sixth Fleets—they largely relied on the Citadel Fleet for their defence._

_(7): Zhu's Hope, which survived thanks in large part to Shepard's efforts while hunting down Saren. _

_(8): The identity of this daughter would be revealed within the year. _

_(9): This occurred after Shepard helped Miranda out with her sister, which she addressed in greater detail during a subsequent log entry. _

_(10): Shepard used a similar tactic during a mission to recruit Dr. Liara T'Soni, though he only used it once on a hapless rocket trooper. I agree with Ms. Lawson that his insistence on using this tactic throughout this entire mission must have been... alarming. _

_(11): Governments, businesses and activists had been arguing for several years as to whether the acid was due to environmental devastation from the mining._


	3. Miranda Versus the Normal Life

_Editorial Note: Readers aware of who followed Shepard and his growing relationship with Miranda will no doubt be aware of the one of the driving motivations, if not _THE _driving motivation, in her life, and might expect a thorough log entry of her efforts to help her sister on Illium. However, the few entries relating to that particular event proved to be short and sparse. To provide further insight into the lengths she would go to protect and provide for Oriana's future, as well as the thinking behind her actions, I have included older log entries from her childhood._

**Miranda Versus the Normal Life**

I pride myself on being unshakable. Unflappable. Able to handle anything that comes my way without flinching. I don't freeze. I don't panic. I just don't. It's how I survived Father's cruel and brutal idea of ch—well, let's call it training, I never had a childhood. It's how I mustered the courage to run away. It's how I accomplished countless tasks and assignments given to me, either by Father or by Cerberus.

Then I got the e-mail:

_From: Lanteia_

_Ms. Lawson,_

_I've been picking up some disturbing chatter this month. Search inquiries over the extranet, hacking into civilian and government databases, vacations by numerous people who went to different places shortly after receiving funds from the same accounts. Over the last week, this activity has all abruptly focused on Illium. _

_It is highly probable that your father or his agents have a solid lead on the whereabouts of the girl you tasked me to monitor. _

_I have begun preliminary planning for extraction scenarios. Please contact me as soon as possible with additional instructions._

For the first time I was shaken. I just sat there, staring at the e-mail. Then I flinched at the gentle chime my computer usually gave when it finished a download. I tried to open the attachment, but I couldn't move. My mind was racing, caught in a perfect storm of sheer unadulterated panic.

I didn't know what to do.

* * *

**Then **

Knowledge is power.

Governments use it to further their agendas and deal with other powers. Militaries use it to plan and carry out missions and campaigns. Corporations use it to develop their products or move against competitors. Students use it to complete assignments and pass their exams. People use it to plan their itineraries, map out vacations, juggle their schedules, decide which restaurant to go to or even where to buy that ever-so-important cup of coffee or tea.

I did my research before leaving my father. It was clear that I didn't have enough money to buy the resources I needed, not for the long term anyway, so I had to make a deal with someone who did. Several years passed while I quietly watched, listened and gathered as much knowledge as I could to assess all the potential candidates. Official witness protection programs were eliminated almost immediately, due to their overabundance of bureaucracy, lack of resources and vulnerability to politics. Not to mention the fact that I'd breached their firewalls in less than a minute.

Governments were just as bad, if not worse, than the witness protection programs they ran. Enough said.

The organizations that tried to legitimize their status by calling themselves private military contractors were another option. On the one hand, they were not burdened with red tape. On the other hand, they didn't have quite enough resources for my needs. Besides, they were far too unreliable, given their primary focus on the bottom line.

As for the mercenary groups, the ones who focused more on getting the job done than public relations, most of them were too small. Of the top three, the Blood Pack lacked the patience and discipline for what I needed (besides, they smelled. Almost as bad as any random spot on Omega). That left only two candidates. The Blue Suns had the most organization, discipline and manpower, not to mention a proven and well-deserved reputation for getting the job done. I actually found myself favouring Eclipse, to be honest. They tended to favour more stealthy, subtle and intelligent approaches as opposed to more brute-force tactics—or so they claimed; my research had indicated that their actual operations tended to go either way. Still, there was no denying that they had the widest range of resources. What they lacked in sheer numbers or operational discipline, they made up for with a stunning synergy of cutting-edge technology and extensive application of biotics—something that I personally found very appealing. **(1)** Ultimately, I found that all the mercenary groups were far too unreliable, given their demonstrated history of reneging on their promises when a more lucrative, albeit short-term, opportunity presented itself.

Private corporations tended to be easily swayed by their own need to pander to marketing trends and, once again, public opinion. I needed something more reliable. Something bigger. Something greater and purer than the fickle whimsies of the present day.

Once I'd made my choice, it was just a matter of waiting for the right opportunity to present my offer. I used that time to make my preparations. Quietly setting aside credits, in hidden accounts as well as a sizeable stash of hard currency. Acquiring multiple false identities that I could adopt and drop. Memorizing itineraries for travel providers—official, illegal and other. Planning for any and all scenarios—from the one where my primary choice accepted my offer and all its conditions, to the ones where they declined and I had to fall back to one of my secondary choices, to the worst-case scenarios where my father found out—or my primary choice ratted me out—and I had to make an emergency exit.

Then October 10th rolled around.

* * *

**Now**

Somehow, I managed to get through the rest of the day. Finished my reports, submitted my findings. I even went on a mission. Some distress call that Shepard picked up in the midst of his rampant strip mining. **(2)** Naturally, I was pondering all the scenarios that could help me deal with the very thing I had dreaded since I had fled from Father's clutches: the scenario where he had a strong lead on my sister's whereabouts.

I had already sent and received confirmation of my request for Cerberus aid to relocate Oriana and her foster family. I'd contacted an old friend—my only friend from the past—to start watching for any unusual activity from my father. Still, that was not enough. Ever since I joined Cerberus, I had been watching over Oriana. I had personally screened and approved of her foster family. Prepared contingency funds should they fall into any financial difficulty—which they didn't. While Oriana and her family weren't above splurging from time to time, they made sure they had sufficient funds to pay for the necessities of life—basic and otherwise—and invest in a wide range of stocks and funds, with plenty left over to save for the proverbial rainy day.

I watched with some degree of pride as she excelled academically. In some way, I wasn't surprised—we did share the same genetic code, after all. But her environment and upbringing might have instilled some tendency or willingness to coast along. To my secret delight, she didn't do that. She had the drive and discipline to focus on her studies, while having plenty of time to focus on other extracurricular activities. The only covert intervention I ever had to do while Oriana was growing up was cut through a little electronic red tape here, make it easier for them to find some nugget of data or subtly correct a minor error on their tax returns.

It was that same watchful attention that insisted I had to be there in person when Oriana and her family departed to start the next chapter of their lives. The next chapter of their _normal _lives. No matter how many times I told myself otherwise, some part of me insisted that I had to be there and personally make sure that they were safe. It was clear that I wanted, no, I _needed _to make sure that Oriana got safely away from Father.

No matter how I calculated the variables, no matter how many ways I looked at the situation, I kept coming to the same conclusion: I...

I...

I needed...

I needed Shepard's help.

Granted, Shepard was already en route to Illium to recruit a few candidates the Illusive Man had selected—a drell assassin named Thane Krios and an asari justicar known as Samara. Even if I were to assist him, I could easily slip away afterwards. Invariably, Shepard would get distracted with some shopping—I had _never _seen a man so fascinated with shopping, even if those kiosks tended to sell weapons or military-grade equipment—or some random stranger's sob story, which would buy me time to make sure Oriana got away safely. Hopefully everything would go according to plan. If it didn't…

…

Well, that was the problem, wasn't it?

I couldn't afford to assume or hope that the best-case scenario would occur. Not with Oriana's life and happiness at stake. I had to assume that things might go wrong so I could prepare accordingly. In this case, such preparations required my personal intervention. While I was certainly capable of handling the situation, the simple fact was that the odds of success would be dramatically improved if I had backup. Working with Shepard over the last few months had proved that. But I couldn't just go off and hire some mercs that I'd never worked with before. That lack of unfamiliarity could get me—or worse, Oriana—hurt or killed. So either I reassigned some Cerberus assets to meet me at Illium or I'd have to ask Shepard for help. Which meant telling him about my sister.

I didn't know which part scared me more.

* * *

**Then**

The Cord-Hislop Aerospace Annual Banquet was—and still is—one of the most important and influential events in Alliance space. Every year on October 10th, it would attract, wine and dine leaders and influential men and women from every political party and major human technology company in the Alliance. It was a closed-door event where people would give each other false smiles, offer empty platitudes, pat their own backs and stab everyone else's. It also meant everyone was dressed in the most elegant of clothes, custom-tailored and most definitely falling in the category of 'if you have to ask, you most certainly can't afford it so please move along,' That tended to engender a certain arrogance and pretentiousness that I found both understandable and aggravating. Suffice it to say that I had mixed feelings about all that.

Father had told me in advance that I would be accompanying him to the CHAAB, as it was informally called. I liked to use that acronym in private, mostly because Father would disapprove if I said it out loud. All right—especially since Father would disapprove if I said it out loud.

But I digress. **(3)**

Naturally, Father didn't ask for my opinion or consent. It was simply accepted that I would be attending. Mostly to parade me around as his heir apparent. And boast at how my analyses had accurately foreseen that Daedalus Shipping had dangerously overextended itself through a series of hasty and poorly-planned acquisitions, thus paving the way for a protracted strategy—designed by yours truly—which enabled a hostile takeover by Father's nascent empire. And use my genetically enhanced physical appearance as a distraction to tease out company secrets and negotiate deals that would not have occurred—or would not have been so beneficial to Father. Suffice it to say I had no mixed feelings about being used like a pretty little siren that was trotted out when needed.

For once, however, I was actually looking forward to an event like this. Mainly because I had an agenda of my own. First I had to dutifully follow Father. Smile on cue, say all the right things at all the right times and endure the inevitable stares from men and women who were surreptitiously admiring—or blatantly ogling—my assets. Then I was released to wander off on my own, exchange pleasantries, mine through all the gossip for any tidbits of information and be ogled some more. All while keeping a surreptitious eye on Kieran Ryker, CFO of Cord-Hislop Aerospace.

Then it was time to make my move. Ryker was just finishing a conversation—and his champagne. I walked towards him, carefully picking a path that wasn't too direct or straightforward, but ensured that I would arrive just as his companion left. Not to mention passing by a waiter to take a pair of champagne flutes.

Naturally, my timing was impeccable. "Mr. Ryker," I greeted him. "Enjoying the festivities?"

"I am, Miss Lawson," he replied. "And thank you," he added, taking the flute I offered him.

"You're welcome," I returned.

"Are you here on business?" he asked. "Did Henry secure the construction contract for us? I didn't think even a man of his considerable influence could pull enough favours, given the terms of our bid—between you and me, they were a bit too much for any reasonable person to swallow."

"Cord-Hislop Aerospace will have to make some more concessions," I admitted, "but you will win the rights to build the next Alliance dreadnought. Father should be helping revise the final draft as we speak." And acquiring another sample of genetic material to construct more daughters in the process, I silently added. Ryker didn't need to know that, however. "But that's not why I am here. I'm here because I want a private talk with your boss."

Ryker gave me an uncertain smile and took a hasty gulp of his champagne. I winced—one simply doesn't gulp champagne. "I don't understand. I thought you—"

"Your _real_ boss," I interrupted.

His smile flickered, just for an instant. His eyes shone with a mixture of panic and recognition. My sources had informed me that Ryker had a lousy poker face, but I hadn't realized it was this bad. I would have to remember this. "I don't understand," he repeated, taking another large gulp. This time I suppressed my wince.

"Don't give me that," I told him with a withering look. "Cord-Hislop Aerospace has been a front for Cerberus since its inception. You're the senior Cerberus agent, so you have direct access to the Illusive Man. I want to meet him."

Again with the smile, the look and the gulp—the champagne was more or less gone by this point. "The Illusive... I don't understand."

"I know you don't," I sighed, having expected this possibility. "You've never acted as an intermediary before, have you? Small wonder: you only got promoted last week."

"But... how did you know... I mean..."

"Let me simplify things for you." I made a circular motion with my wrist. A blue aura of biotic energy shimmered to life, pulling a dessert from a nearby table towards me. Stuffed peach, if you must know. I manoeuvred it until it was right in front of his eyes—and directly above his champagne flute—before squeezing my fist. The biotic field slowly collapsed, squeezing the juices out of the peach and into his flute. Then I released the field and allowed the remnants of the dessert to fall. Ryker flinched when it plopped into his flute. "I want to talk to the Illusive Man," I repeated slowly. "Now."

His eyes heralded his resignation. "This way, ma'am," he nodded jerkily, making a speedy bee-line towards the nearest exit. I followed, albeit at a more sedate pace. Someone had to maintain some composure, after all.

He led me to the elevator. I could hear him hyperventilating as he pressed the button for the 20th floor, thanks to my genetically enhanced hearing. I could smell him sweating as well, thanks to my genetically enhanced sense of smell. More's the pity.

I followed him out of the elevator and down the hallway to his office. If all went according to plan, he would open a real-time comm channel to the Illusive Man. If not, I'd have to give another demonstration of my biotics—this time on a certain anatomical region.

Thankfully, none of that was necessary. Ryker turned on his computer, opened the channel and fled without saying a word. Fine with me. I sat down in his chair and sniffed when I ran my hands over the armrests—faux leather. How cheap.

Before I could spend any more time pondering why a man of Ryker's means would be so miserly, the screen abruptly darkened and I took my first look at the Illusive Man.

He was sitting in a chair, surrounded by holographic screens. Behind him was a large star—was he on a starship or space station? Perhaps a virtual display of some sort. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit: single-button closure, chest pocket, four-button cuffs. Judging by the cut, it was likely from Giuli Vorn. 2000 thread count at least, probably 2200. His hair was a lighter shade of grey, more silver, and close-cropped. His eyes...

...his eyes...

...his eyes were steely blue, positively glowing with a fiery light. Too bright to be natural. Genetic enhancement? Possibly prosthetic. I shelved that thought for another day—there were more pressing matters.

If he was surprised that Ryker wasn't on the other end of the comm channel, he didn't show it. _"Miss Lawson."_

Of course he recognized me. Knowledge is power, after all. "Illusive Man," I replied.

_"You've heard of me,"_ he stated matter-of-factly. _"From your father, no doubt."_

"He is one of your greatest and most influential supporters," I acknowledged. "Though identifying Ryker as the most expedient way to contact you was done entirely on my own. I apologize if I have inconvenienced you."

The Illusive Man waved it aside. _"It's always good to know the limitations of my operatives,"_ he said. "_What can I do for you?"_

Straight to the point. Fair enough. "I'd like to work for you."

_"Interesting. Your father never mentioned this during our last communiqué, which suggests he doesn't know."_

"No, he does not," I confirmed. "I want to leave him, but I will need protection from the inevitable reprisal. Cerberus is best suited to provide that protection."

_"And why would Cerberus want to incur the wrath of one of its 'greatest and most influential supporters'?"_ the Illusive Man asked. _"He would, no doubt, withdraw his considerable support and financing if we took the linchpin to his legacy and nascent business empire."_

"You can always find another source of financing and influence," I shrugged. "What you can't find so easily is someone genetically engineered to be faster and stronger than 99.995% of the human population. I can also heal faster than any other human, even with the latest genetic modifications out on the market, and can either shoot a mech's head off at a hundred metres or crush it with my biotics."

Actually, it's more like 105.9 metres, but he didn't need to know that.

_"As impressive as you might be on the battlefield,"_ the Illusive Man admitted, _"it still seems a hefty price to pay for the loss of your father's support."_

"Oh I am much more than some elite soldier," I rebutted. "Even elite soldiers don't necessarily have my biotic potential, much less an IQ of 181. They wouldn't be able to predict the vulnerability of Daedalus Shipping, nor could they plan and execute a hostile takeover. And they wouldn't be able to determine why the mission on the Geneva..." I stopped myself before I could say 'failed.' "...resulted the way it did," I said at last."

_"The Geneva,"_ the Illusive Man repeated.

"SSV Geneva," I nodded.

There was a pause. For a moment, I wondered if one of my worst-case scenarios would come to fruition.

_"What do you know about the SSV Geneva?"_ he said at last.

"An Ensign Elizabeth Shafai from Alliance Supply and Procurement sent an e-mail last week which stated that the SSV Geneva was carrying an unusually high volume of antimatter and detailing its exact route," I said. "Unfortunately, her e-mail was traced and decrypted in time for the Alliance to send the SSV London to intercept the Geneva and thwart the theft. Plus, the lone survivor from the Geneva theft identified Cerberus as the sponsor. At least all other parties were killed or committed suicide before capture."

The Illusive Man didn't reply at first. The only hint that he heard me at all was an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. _"Concise and accurate,"_ the Illusive Man said at last, a note of approval in his voice. _"Do you have any thoughts on how this could have been prevented?"_

"Ensign Shafai should have done a better job of hiding the e-mail," I replied. "Either by using low-priority channels that don't face as much scrutiny or by masking it as a more innocuous message. The team that boarded the Geneva should have picked a more remote region to intercept the ship—Horizon, perhaps. Someplace where the whole thing could be more easily passed off as a random pirate attack. And a little more manpower would have helped. I'd say at least three more soldiers to eliminate any opposition plus another technical expert familiar with starship engineering or antimatter transport. Preferably both."

The Illusive Man raised his right eyebrow. Only by a millimetre, but that was enough to tell me that he was impressed. _"How did you find all this out?"_

"A little hacking here and there," I shrugged. "Just enough to gather the facts, come to a conclusion and determine how things could have gone differently."

Then the Illusive Man leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. _"And why are you telling me this instead of informing the Alliance? What guarantees do I have that you won't go straight to the Alliance with your discovery after concluding this conversation?"_

Clearly, he was intrigued. "To answer the latter, you have no guarantees," I admitted. "Only my word that I am more interested in helping Cerberus than the Alliance, which brings me to your first question: I am talking to you, demonstrating what I can do and offering my services because I believe in what Cerberus stands for.

"Unlike the Alliance, Cerberus is not hidebound by bureaucracy and red tape. It is not restricted by the need to have everything approved by committees and commissions. It does not pander to galactic opinion or concerns that it must slow its progress so as not to alarm or offend the other races. Cerberus wants to advance the development and progress of humanity—socially, technologically, politically—and is willing to do whatever is necessary to do so. It realizes that we won't do humanity any favours by being meek and timid. No, the only way to realize our potential is to be bold, willing to take risks. Willing to do whatever it takes."

The Illusive Man leaned back in his chair after I finished. I suppressed any signs of surprise as he dug into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, inserted it between his lips and lit it. Smoking was exceedingly rare, but not entirely unheard of. I watched as he leisurely inhaled and patiently waited for him to make the next move.

_"Let's say I am interested,"_ he finally said in a puff of smoke. _"That I am willing to risk alienating your father and losing all his considerable influence, contacts and funding in favour of taking you in as an operative and shielding you from his grasp. How soon would you be ready to depart?"_

"As soon as you give the word," I replied.

The Illusive Man looked amused. _"You're awfully confident that I would say 'yes'."_

"Not confident," I corrected. "Just prepared."

_"I see,"_ he nodded. _"Well, I will have to think about this offer. Rest assured, however, that I will get back to you within one solar day,"_ he added, tapping a console.

Glancing down at my omni-tool, I verified that a new set of comm protocols had just been downloaded. "Understood," I replied.

"There is one more thing," I added just before the Illusive Man signed off.

_"Oh?"_

"There is a young baby who I will be taking with me," I said.

_"Your child?"_

"No."

_"Ah. The latest of Henry's 'genetic dynasty,' I take it."_

"Quite," I said tersely. Did _everyone _know about Father's obsession? "As my final condition, I would like your personal assurance that Oriana will be given to a good,caring foster family that can and will give her a normal childhood and upbringing. I also want Cerberus to offer Oriana the same protection from my father, up to and including thwarting any of his attempts to find her and relocating her and her foster family if necessary."

_"And if I refuse?"_ the Illusive Man asked.

"Then my offer is off the table," I said firmly. **(4)**

Another pause...

_"I'll be in touch. A pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Lawson."_

"The pleasure is all mine," I assured him. "I look forward to your reply."

The Illusive Man reached over and terminated the communication. I let out a breath, one I hadn't realized I was holding. That had gone as well as I could have expected.

Now all I could do was wait.

* * *

**Now**

That was a lot easier than I'd thought.

I had finally mustered the courage to tell Ms. Chambers that I wanted to talk to Shepard. Based on his usual habits, I predicted he'd arrive somewhere between 1430 and 1445. While I waited, I thought back on all the events that had forced me to this point. Clearly, I had failed. If I had done my job, Father and his agents would never have found Oriana. I would not have been forced to activate my contingency protocols to relocate Oriana and her family from the life they knew. I would not have had to ask Shepard for help. To tell him my deepest, most cherished secret. **(5)**

He arrived at 1431. I took a deep breath and told him everything.

To my surprise, he listened. About how I had a sister. How she was the real reason why I'd joined Cerberus of all organizations. How everything I'd done, everything I'd _sacrificed_, was to give Oriana the best possible chance for a normal life. Free from the harsh, uncaring cruelties about a selfish man who was more interested in creating a damned dynasty than the happiness of his children. How that life, that normalcy had suddenly been threatened. How I needed his help.

He asked questions, of course. There were times when I'd found his incessant curiosity to be exasperating or annoying. Once or twice, it was even endearing. But this time, it was, well, comforting. It showed he was taking it seriously.

More than seriously, when I think about it. There was a… a sincerity in his words. It was clear from the start of our conversation, after I'd forced myself to admit that I needed his help. His reply was short and to the point—"What's going on," he'd said—but the intent was clear: he considered me a part of the crew. A part of _his _crew. Even after knowing what I stood for, what Cerberus stood for, he had never turned away my aid. Never brushed me off or ignored me. And he wouldn't start now. He was genuinely concerned about my situation and actually wanted to help. It was quite surprising, to be honest. When I first met him, I thought this sincerity and concern, this interest in the people around him, was an act. How had I gotten to the point where I was now accepting his word without question? Where I didn't have any doubts whatsoever?

Perhaps it was the fact that I had gotten to know him. To see him, in person as I shared my deepest, most personal secret. To see his body language as he started with concern. To gauge his sincerity simply by looking in his eyes. To hear his tone, his voice, his words as he promised to help in whatever way he could.

I can't quite describe how I felt when he agreed to assist me. It was like my body suddenly _hummed _with this surge of… relief? Gratitude? Warmth? Something.

What was just as striking, if not more so, was what he didn't do. He never showed any hesitation in offering his assistance. Never held this over my head as something that the perfect Miranda Lawson had failed to fully anticipate or properly prepare for. He didn't extract any favours or force any deals in exchange for his cooperation. It was so strange to have someone volunteer his help so freely. No one had ever done that before.

Not since Niket, anyway.

* * *

**Then**

As it turned out, I didn't have to wait long at all. The Illusive Man sent an e-mail a few hours after Father and I returned to our headquarters/home at Lawson Towers, which suggested a few possibilities. Perhaps he was very decisive in making his decisions. Perhaps he had been watching my progression over the years and had made tentative plans to recruit me all along. Or perhaps he had made up his mind, but wanted time to verify my story before making the offer. Whatever the reason, he sent an e-mail to my omni-tool, which alerted me with a loud beep. I scolded myself for neglecting to set it to vibrate. If Father had been around, his suspicions would have been aroused—thanks to his obsessive need for control, virtually no one contacted me without his approval. Even the few friends that I had managed to cultivate had to contact me through more secure channels.

Thankfully, my error had not jeopardized my mission. Looking around to make sure I was alone, I quickly activated a jamming program that would disrupt—temporarily, at least—any surveillance devices in the area and reset _all _functions in my omni-tool to vibrate before opening the e-mail client. The e-mail that downloaded was fairly brief:

_From: Illusive Man_

_I am pleased to inform you that, after careful consideration, I have decided to accept your proposal and its conditions. _

_The MSV Typhon will be waiting for you at Sydney Starport, Docking Bay 94. It will depart at 0300 hours. _

I deleted the e-mail after memorizing its contents. Then I opened a comm channel. It took a full minute before someone responded. _"Hello?" _someone said groggily.

"Niket. Secure the channel."

"_Secure—what? Who is this?"_

"Niket," I sighed. "Wake up and secure the channel."

There was a lot of grumbling, muttering and rattling. Something fell over, eliciting a string of curses. _"Channel secured," _I heard at last. _"You know you're the only one who insists on securing her communications to this extent, Miri. Even the Alliance doesn't use this much encryption."_

"Which is why any idiot can bypass their firewalls," I replied. "Much less—"

"_Yes, yes, your father," _Niket sighed. _"I was there when he berated you for being 0.01% off in your financial projections last month—in public. And when he pulled you away from your night off after working for a full week on that takeover thing."_

Right, I'd almost forgotten. "Yeah," I said slowly, "didn't you have an interview with Daedalus Shipping?"

There was a derisive snort. _"If you can call it that. 'Daedalus Shipping is in a phase of rapid expansion, thanks to its brilliant and revolutionary plan. We are on the verge of becoming the premiere shipping company for the Alliance—and if our agenda fails, it's because guys like you didn't measure up to our high expectations.'"_

"They said that?" I asked in disbelief.

"_Verbatim," _Niket confirmed. _"First time I was glad I didn't get a call-back for a second interview. I…" _Whatever he was going to say was pre-empted by a yawn. _"Sorry. It's… Miri! Do you know what time it is?"_

"To the second."

"_You know, you're the only one who calls me this late. Or early."_

That brought a smile to my face—a genuine one, that is. Niket was the only one who could do that. "What about all the women in your life?"

"_Aside from you, there are only two who would call this late. Early. Whatever. Neither of them are my friend."_

I could say that about the thousands of people I'd met. Tutors, acquaintances, colleagues, business partners, business rivals… none of them could be considered a friend. You don't get assigned friends by your father. You don't get asked to investigate or use friends to further one of several agendas. You don't keep friends at arm's length in case you have to betray or cast them aside.

Over the years, I've cultivated a few contacts that one might call friends. In secret—if Father found out, he'd either ruin their lives to teach me a lesson about the follies of misplaced trust or forcibly extract information that could be used as leverage to ensure my compliance. Most people knew that, which made it even harder to find _real _friends. Niket was one of them. He was the only one who would tolerate my waking him at odd hours. The only one capable of looking past my physical appearance and see a lonely girl who just needed someone to talk to. The only _real _friend.

He was also the only one who let me tease him. I decided to take the opportunity to get some teasing in. It might be the last chance I'd get. **(6)** "Are either of those friends keeping you nice and warm?"

"_No, they're not like that."_

"But there is someone who's like that?"

"_I didn't say that!"_

"You didn't have to. So who is it? April?"

"_No."_

"Beatrix?"

"_No."_

"Cody?"

"_I don't swing that way!"_

"Danica?"

"_Will you stop it?!"_

I laughed. I couldn't help myself—it was just too funny to rile him up like this.

"_You really need to get away from your father," _he sighed. _"I swear, every time he pisses you off, you deal with it by waking me up and venting. Or making fun of me."_

"Not true," I corrected. "I also recite phrases in my head in multiple languages. Stuff like 'extenuating circumstances,' 'patricide,' 'temporary insanity'. That sort of thing."

"_Miri, that's kinda creepy."_

"Would you like to learn how to say 'justifiable homicide' in batarian? It's really quite simple once you wrap your tongue around the first syllable."

"_Scratch that: it's really creepy. You definitely need to move out sooner or later. It—"_

"How about now?"

"—_isn't healthy to… wait, what?"_

"I'm leaving. Now."

"_Now? Like _now _now? Like right this second?"_

"Anywhere between this second and an hour from now. And… um… I really need a favour."

"_Geez, a little warning would be nice. I'd have grabbed a nap if—"_

"I just found out a few minutes ago. If I gave you any warning, Father might find out."

"_He's going to find out once you go AWOL. How the heck are you going to stay away from him once he unleashes his goons?"_

"I may have found some protection."

"_Like witness protection?"_

"Something like that," I hedged. "The less you know about it, the better."

"_Whoa. Wow. Um. Huh."_

I decided to give him twenty seconds of monosyllabic utterances. Thankfully, he only needed ten. _"So, like, what do you need?"_

"Are you still doing part-time pizza deliveries?"

"_Uh, yeah. Though you picked one weird time for the munchies."_

"Actually, I was more interested in whether you had access to the garage."

Niket was always quick on the uptake. _"You need a lift?"_

"No!" I quickly said. The last thing I needed was for him to pick me up and wonder why I was carrying Oriana with me. I hadn't told him about her. The less he knew, the better. Both for the success of my plan and his own safety. "Look, I don't want you to get into any more trouble. You're doing too much as it is."

"_What are friends for?"_

"No," I repeated. I couldn't get him involved. Any more involved, that is. He deserved better than that. "It's too dangerous. I just need access to an skycar. Can you get one?"

"_Yeah, I think so. Pizza shop's closed by now. When do you need it? And where do you want me to park it?" _

"One hour. Across the street from our second drop-off point."

"_You mean outside—"_

"Don't say it!" I snapped.

"_Right, right. Never know who might be listening, even over a secure channel. Sorry." _

I felt bad for snapping at him. This channel _was _supposed to be encrypted, after all. "I'll program it to drive back to the pizza shop garage and wipe the navigational computer's memory after I get to… to my destination. You know, so you don't get in trouble."

"_Okay."_

"Can you do it?"

"_Of course I can do it. But…"_

"What?" I asked.

"_This is for real? You're actually leaving? Running away from your father?"_

"Yes."

"_Isn't it going to be tough? You've grown up never wanting for food. Had a swanky roof over your head. Credits to buy whatever you need or want." _

"Father's reminded me of that every minute of every day," I replied coldly. "That _he's _given me everything, so I have to work to earn it. To show I deserve it. To pay him back for his _investment_. Do you know what it's like to wonder what price you'll have to pay for the bed you go to sleep in at night? To have a meal and wish you could just pay for it with credits instead of some impossible task to be determined in the future? To be afraid to ask for anything because your own father will consider it a loan that you have to pay back with interest? To rub every mistake and failure in your face as yet another example that you don't deserve everything you've been given?"

…

…

"_No," _Niket said at last. _"I guess not. Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."_

"Forget it," I sighed. "It's just… this is what my life has been like. A very pretty, very expensive cage that I was born in without any choice in the matter. Now it's time for me to break out."

"_You're right. Sorry, it's… well, we've talked about it for so long. And now you're actually _doing _it. It's hard to—will I ever see or talk to you again?"_

"I don't know," I admitted. "I hope so. I'll have to cut ties to almost everyone and everything. But I'd like to have at least one good link to the past."

"_Me too."_

"I'm setting up a way for us to stay in touch," I promised.

"_That would be great," _Niket replied. _"But don't let that get in the way of packing up."_

"I just finished," I said smugly, fingers flying over the keyboard.

"_Of course you are," _he laughed. _"You're probably setting up some drop box or something for our chats as we speak."_

"You know me too well," I chuckled fondly as I entered the last series of commands. "I'm just about done, by the way."

"_Then it's time for me to get going. Unless there's anything else I can do."_

"No," I shook my head. Not that he could see, of course. "That's about it."

"_Okay. I'll have the skycar ready in—"_

"Actually, wait," I suddenly said before Niket got off the line. An idea had just occurred to me. "Maybe there's something else you can do."

* * *

**Now**

After all he had done, I couldn't believe things had ended the way they did.

Ever since this debacle began, Father had been one step ahead of me. He'd traced Oriana to Illium before I found out his search had intensified. He'd hired Eclipse mercenaries before the Normandy docked at Nos Astra. The mercenaries had entrenched themselves at every possible checkpoint between me and my sister before we'd had a chance to talk to Lanteia.

If it wasn't for Shepard, I would have lost my sister. I meant it when I said that Father never planned for someone like him. He might have been decent at long-term strategy, but he excelled at improvising tactics on the spot. I had never met anyone who could size up the situation and create a plan of attack quite as effectively as Shepard—the part where he threw the first squad of Eclipse mercs off-guard and reduced their numbers by killing their leader and dropping an overhead cargo crate on top of them was particularly inspired.

Shepard was also the first one to figure out just how Father had been one step ahead of me. Wondering who this friend was, wondering if he could have been turned by Father. He never flat-out accused him of being a traitor, no doubt because he didn't want to stir up any mixed feelings without conclusive evidence, but the doubts were there. I hadn't told Niket about Oriana—or Cerberus or anything. Despite the drop box I set up, I hadn't exactly made much of an effort to keep in touch with him, nor had I checked up on him to see how _he _was doing. I had been too busy burying myself in my new life. In fact, I hadn't sent him an e-mail in over a year.

If I had made more of an effort, I would've found out how he'd started his own business, only to declare bankruptcy a year later. Every attempt he'd made to make a name for himself had failed, mostly due to circumstances out of his control. It wasn't all bad—he'd managed to scrape enough together to keep a roof over his head, food in his belly and a small amount of credits in his account. But never enough to escape a life of uncertainty, where one slip could send him crashing down into poverty. Small wonder that he had grown increasingly desperate.

I don't mean to excuse his actions, not entirely. He did betray me and Oriana, after all. Even when he knew just how bad Father was. He made that choice. But if I had helped him the way I had helped Oriana, if I had trusted him with my secret, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe he wouldn't have succumbed to Father's offer. Maybe.

All I knew for certain was that Shepard was right: I did still care for Niket. That was the only reason I felt so betrayed when I found out he'd sold me out for a price. That only reason I felt so relieved when he tried to redeem himself for his errors. The only reason I felt so… so angry and furious when Enyala—the leader of the Eclipse mercs Father hired—so callously ended his life.

In the end, when the fighting was over, all I could do was stand there. Stand there over Niket's body and think how, despite his betrayal, I would miss him. Perhaps because of all the times we shared. Perhaps because how he tried to correct his wrongs by helping me and my sister. Just like he helped me all those years ago.

* * *

**Then**

I checked the chronometer on my omni-tool. 0011. I'd planned to be on the move by now, but grabbing my supplies had taken a little longer than expected. Not too long, but enough that I missed my window of opportunity and had to wait for the next one—five minutes later. Five minutes of fidgeting, re-checking, re-calculating and second guessing. Hopefully things would go more smoothly from here on out.

0012

Palming the door controls, I poked my head around and looked both ways. Even though I'd confirmed the schedules and patrol routes of Father's guards 2096 times, I couldn't resist. A last-minute shift change, some guard ahead or behind schedule, any such variable could ruin my plan. And I couldn't afford for my plan to be jeopardized. Not this time.

No one was in the corridor, though, so I quickly moved to the nearest sculpture. A knight carved from white marble from one of Father's supporters. I crouched behind it and counted to six before jumping to my feet and running around to the other side of the knight, taking advantage of the small blind spot between the two vid-cams in this section of the corridor. Closing my eyes, I let out a breath and counted another eleven seconds before running to the elevator. The private one, keyed to Father's DNA, retinal scan, thumbprint and voice-enabled password. All of which were easy to obtain, especially since I'd been planning for this night for the last ten years. Father would be loathe to admit it, but he had a dandruff problem—which made it ridiculously easy to obtain DNA samples. His daily lectures on what I was doing wrong and how I wasn't perfect yet usually involved staring into my eyes and gripping my chin to make sure I didn't squirm away. A careful application of ocular cam-lenses onto my eyes ensured that I could capture a perfect snapshot of his retinas, my infallible memory helped me determine which area of my skin to scan for thumbprints and a customized program installed on my omni-tool recorded more than enough data to replicate his voiceprint. As for the password, I knew Father had a penchant for Greek mythology. Tonight's password, for example, was 'Bellerophon.' The hardest part was devising a way to deliver the DNA sample, retinal scan, thumbprint and password within ten seconds—a piece of cake, in other words.

I knew better than to actually _use _the elevator, though. Father's guards weren't exactly geniuses, but even they knew that the private elevator didn't move unless: a) Father was in it or b) an unauthorized party or parties—that is, anyone but Father—was using it. Now it would be child's play to hack the security cameras or countless other systems, but I didn't want to exercise that option unless I had no choice. I had already hacked the mainframe several times to set up my escape plan. Any more hacks, especially unnecessary ones, could leave enough digital footprints and tracks that Father's computer security could trace. I hadn't taken such care to memorize the schedules of each and every security guard, not to mention the blind spots of all the vid-cams, just for fun.

No, the reason—well, the first reason—I had targeted Father's private elevator was so I could gain access to the elevator _shaft_. Yes, the one with motion sensors, laser beams, DNA scanners, kinetic barriers—to help cushion unexpected falls and impede unexpected visitors—and several other security features. Temporarily disabling every one of those systems was actually safer than tapping into the mainframe. As an added benefit, I could actually reach every one of those systems without risk of setting off the alarms. All I had to do was determine the inverse frequency of the kinetic barriers and I could generate a hole with my biotics, one large enough for me to pass through. Similarly, opening a hole in the kinetic barriers guarding the control systems for the sensors, laser beams and DNA scanners allowed me to upload a file of junk data. It would take time for the control systems to purge that data, time I could use to slip by undetected.

The second reason was that the private elevator shaft provided more elbow room and easier access to all the built-in security systems than the ventilation ducts. Even if I wanted to squirm through the ducts, I couldn't: based on my calculations, my genetically enhanced ass would keep tripping the laser beams. Yes, even when unclenched.

I glanced at my chronometer when I reached the bottom of the shaft and silently cursed: 0029. Two minutes behind schedule, which meant that one of the guards would be close enough to hear the elevator doors when I opened them. My original plan wouldn't work anymore. I'd used up any leeway time that had been factored in rappelling down the elevator shaft.

Good thing I'd come up with a backup plan.

I bypassed the lock on the elevator door controls. Simple for someone of my talents. All I had to do was confirm the bypass. I closed my eyes, I took a deep breath and counted down from three...

This was it.

Two...

Everything was about to change.

One...

For my sister.

Go!

Triggering the bypass, I jumped through the elevator doors. The guard whirled around, his eyes widening as he saw me charging towards him. He fumbled for his pistol, then reached for his comm, evidently deciding that shooting the boss's daughter on his own initiative wasn't the best idea. While he was making up his mind, I fired off an EMP at him, temporarily disabling all the electronics and weapons on his person. Before he could do anything else, I hopped onto a nearby crate and put one foot on the wall. Pushing off, I whipped my foot out, catching him right in the neck.

I was back on the floor and on the run as the hapless guard hit the ground. I'd made it about ten metres when the second guard showed up, no doubt attracted by the sounds of all that running. Grabbing my pistol, I opened fire. It's normally impossible to fire with any accuracy when you're running, but I'm not normal. The flare from my bullets hitting his kinetic barrier blinded him, allowing me to close in and deliver a precise biotic blast, shattering his helmet and—more importantly—sending a shard of his helmet right between the eyes and straight into his brain.

Whipping around the corner, my eyes registered two more guards. Without thinking twice, I lifted my pistol and fired two shots at a certain pipe running along the ceiling. Super-chilled coolant gushed out, pouring over the hapless guards and freezing them on the spot. Two more shots shattered their bodies in a shower of frozen water and blood.

The last two guards were outside the doors to the birthing chamber. I knocked their weapons out of their hands with a gesture and a flare of biotics. The closest guard took a swing at me, which I dodged effortlessly. I ducked under his predictable backswing, moving around him so I was between the two guards. The second guard tried a couple feints before trying to deliver what would have been a devastating punch to my midsection, if the positioning of his feet hadn't given him away. I blocked that, moving to my left and back. If I had calculated correctly…

…I had. The guard attempted a roundhouse punch to my face, overextending ever so slightly. Before the guard could recover, I grabbed his outstretched arm, bent, pivoted and sent him flying over my shoulder and into the second guard. The pair fell backward into the control panel with enough force to smash the delicate circuitry behind it, causing an explosion that fried their bodies and—more importantly—the door controls.

Stepping over their twitching bodies, I entered the birthing chamber… and paused. I'd studied the blueprints, but it didn't prepare me for this. Everything was white. The floor, the walls, the ceiling. The bio-banks that held all of Father's genetic samples. The genetic sequencers that he'd used to eliminate every possible flaw and calculate the optimal combination of genes. The maturation tubes for accelerated growth. The surgical equipment for neonatal surgery and element zero implantation.

And, most importantly, the pod that held my sister.

As I got closer, I saw that even her clothes were white. Her skin, too. Just like mine. I glanced at the overhead monitors and breathed a sigh of relief as I saw that all her stats were normal.

Oriana opened her eyes as I approached. They were blue, like my own. She smiled as she saw me. That brought me to a halt. She was my genetic twin. My sister. But she was so _small_. So innocent, so trusting. It was hard to believe, even with all that I knew, that we were related. But we were related by blood. I reiterated my silent promise that that would be all that we shared. I vowed that she would never know the pain, the suffering or the hellish training that I had endured. She would know a normal life, one with trivialities, conventional problems. Maybe even lo… well, affection at the very least.

"Uh... hi," I said at last. "My name is Miranda. I'm your sister."

She gurgled.

"I, uh, I know you don't understand me. You probably won't even remember any of this."

A cooing sound escaped her lips.

"But I'm going to get you out of here."

I dropped my knapsack to the ground, opened it up and pulled out the tools I needed. It only took me twenty seconds to get everything assembled and prepared. Standing to my feet, I started to turn around when I heard a giggle. I looked back. She was chortling away and clapping her hands. Apparently crouching down and disappearing, only to stand up and reappear with a baby carrier around my chest and a harness full of explosives in each hand, was close enough to 'peek-a-boo.'

A smile slipped out—the giggling was kind of cute. Then I walked away. Or tried to—I only made it three steps before a cry rang out. I rushed back to the pod. "Shh," I hushed.

She stopped crying. I started to walk away.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH !"

She stopped as soon as I came back. "I just have to set something up," I tried. "I'll be right back."

She didn't buy it. I wracked my brain for how to stop the waterworks, generating and eliminating possibilities until only one option remained.

Oriana giggled as I fastened her into the baby carrier. She gurgled as I uploaded the computer virus from my omni-tool into the birthing chamber's computers, wiping out all of their contents. She babbled as I attached the explosives to the computers, the sequencers and the rest of the equipment.

I permitted myself to take one last look before priming the explosives and leaving the chamber. As I jogged down the corridor, I mentally reviewed my plan. Once the explosives went off, the VI would immediately trace the blast. As soon as it determined that it came from the birthing chamber, a signal would be sent to recall the main elevator—not Father's private elevator, the main one that I'd passed when dealing with the third guard—to the third floor, where a squad of guards would be waiting to take it down. I had to be on top of the main elevator car before the VI sent the recall signal. I crossed my fingers and prayed—an unusual act for me, but one that seemed appropriate—that I wouldn't face any more delays. With all the shielding and electronic counter-measures on this floor, I couldn't remotely detonate the explosives, hence my decision to use a countdown timer. If I was impeded in any way...

Thankfully, all of the guards I'd taken out were still down for the count and there were no new guards in the area. Father had evidently thought that, given all the security measures on the other floors, only five were warranted down here. He hadn't factored in my little act of rebellion. I skidded to a halt outside the main elevator and started bypassing the lock. As the doors hissed open, I glanced down at my sister. The rhythmic bouncing of my jogging had evidently lulled her to sleep.

Entering the elevator car, I generated a small biotic field and directed it towards the floor. Slowly, I began to levitate, taking care not to wake Oriana. Releasing the biotic field, I reached up, opened the elevator car hatch and grabbed the edge before gravity took over. I swayed back and forth for a moment before reaching up with my other hand, getting a firm grip on the edge and pulling me and Oriana up. Closing the hatch, I checked my chronometer. The explosives should be going off just about... now.

The muffled thump reached my ears just before I felt the tremors underneath my feet. About three seconds later, the car started rising. The ascent seemed to take forever, but the car finally slowed to a halt. I moved to the ladder lining the wall of the elevator shaft, taking care not to make any noise that might alert the guards entering the car below me—or worse, wake up Oriana. Then I got onto the rungs, held my breath and waited.

It took a full minute before the car began to descend instead of the usual thirty-one seconds. I suppose an attack at the heart of Father's precious little dynasty caught everyone off guard. It was a minor challenge to coordinate my movements so I could use my omni-tool to override the elevator door controls, keep a firm footing on the ladder rungs and make sure Oriana stayed asleep. Nothing I couldn't handle, however.

With a hiss, the doors opened. I carefully stretched my foot off and gingerly placed it on the floor of the corridor outside. I closed my eyes, counted to three and pushed off the elevator ladder with my other foot. As I'd expected, the move propelled me into the corridor of the south side of the third floor. A sudden movement at my chest brought something to my attention that I had not expected—how easy it might be to wake up Oriana. "Sshh," I hushed. "Go back to sleep, Oriana."

To my alarm, she started to fidget. Oh no, this was the worst possible time for her to be doing… whatever it she was doing. There was something else I had to do, but first I had to settle Oriana down. Of course, I hadn't the slightest idea what to do. My education had covered a wide range of topics, including sexual education, anatomy and physiology, and developmental biology. Looking after babies, alas, was not one of them. All I could think of was hold Oriana close, rock back and forth and say something in a sing-song voice (The Krebs cycle, if you must know. Basic biochemistry always made me doze off, though I blame that less on the material and more on the instructor).

Oriana gradually settled down, her eyes fluttering shut. I breathed a sigh of relief. Now all I had to do was override the security cameras on this floor before—

"_ALL SECURITY TO LEVEL THREE! MIRANDA HAS MY NEXT DAUGHTER! STOP HER BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY, BUT ORIANA IS TO BE RECOVERED UNHARMED!"_

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH !"

Damn it.

As if on cue, three guards came around the corner. I used my biotics to briefly lift one of them up, before letting him fall back down. Unfortunately, he only fell on one of his companions. The other one was quick enough to jump out of the way, lift his assault rifle and fire. At my legs—he evidently realized that shooting at my back carried the risk of bullet fire penetrating through my body and causing severe damage, if not death, to Oriana. Tripping me up or disabling me, on the other hand, carried less risk of injury to Oriana, who had just been given priority status by Father. Not that I cared—the only thing that mattered was Oriana.

I quickly jumped into the elevator shaft and quickly climbed up several rungs, trying to ignore Oriana's cries. If I was lucky… yes! The guard poked his head into the shaft and looked around, confused by the echoes of Oriana's wailing. Before he could look up, I dropped down, hands grabbing a convenient ledge, and swung back into the corridor. I swiveled on my feet and kicked outward, knocking the guard off balance. He swung his arms backwards in a vain attempt to regain his balance before toppling forward and plummeting down the shaft.

Ignoring the sounds of his screams—and, with less success, my sister's—I started to run. Not a fast run, considering I had a sobbing baby strapped to her chest and was preoccupied sending remote commands on my omni-tool. It was only my genetically enhanced physique, years of Olympic-level training and stellar coordination that carried me safely around the corner. Bullets ricocheted off the walls, just barely missing me. Lifting my arm upward, I sent an EMP flying into the ceiling light panels and shorting them out. The backups would kick in momentarily, but that would buy me a little bit of time.

I ran down the corridor, arms pumping on either side of Oriana. I thought I was making good speed until the lights came back on. Knowing that that would make things significantly easier for Father's guards channelled a little more energy into every step. As I raced along, I kept one eye out for any guards ahead of me and the other eye looking through the windows—there it was! I quickly extrapolated the intercept point, factoring in the lactic acid building up in my legs—a mere fraction of what most humans would experience, but still a relevant factor nonetheless. One miscalculation and things could get very messy.

The shouts behind me, followed by gunfire and shattering window panes, reminded me of something else that could get messy. I quickly broke out into a sprint, automatically recalculating my next moves to account for my increased velocity. The next couple shots were much closer. Either the guards had downloaded an update patch for their weapons' targeting software or, more likely, they had stopped running and were focusing their fire. Unfortunately for them, they were too late. I took three more steps, moved my left arm up to shield my eyes, moved my right arm down to shield Oriana's eyes, lunged forward…

…and burst through the window.

One might think that Oriana and I fell for an eternity. It was only 0.65 seconds of free-fall before I encased the two of us in a biotic field that slowed our descent, allowing us to land instead of flop on the skycar that whizzed past Lawson Towers. The skycar I had asked Niket to obtain for me.

It was child's play to open the door while the skycar was speeding away, get inside, close the door and buckle up. The only unexpected part was that Oriana was no longer crying. In fact, she was giggling and clapping her hands. Apparently she'd found this part of the escape to be most entertaining. Oh, to be young and innocent...

Speaking of which, I couldn't afford to relax if I wanted to give Oriana the innocence of a normal life. **(7)** Glancing in the rear-view monitor, I could see three skycars in hot pursuit. This wasn't as harrowing a chase as you might think, as there was very little traffic at this time of night—or, more precisely, morning. It was more a matter of racing past the buildings and turning the occasional sharp corner at an altitude of fifty metres. As I watched, a fourth one joined them—no, it wasn't another skycar. It was an A-47 Scarab gunship. Father must have been really desperate to retrieve Oriana if he was willing to deploy an untested prototype. **(8)**

Little did he know that he had just handed me my ticket to success. The Scarab had a bad habit of heat buildup, which usually resulted in overheating the engines, setting something on fire, or turning the cockpit into a slow-cooking oven. To compensate, Father's engineers had installed a series of heat sinks and exhaust ports. A careful study of the schematics would show that one of those heat sinks—if damaged in just the right way—would clog or destroy several exhaust ports, resulting in a chain reaction that would cripple the gunship.

Unfortunately for Father and his plans, I had studied those schematics. And I knew just how to damage that heat sink. Looking ahead, I quickly made my plan and steered my skycar briefly into the oncoming traffic before drifting back into my designated flight zone. As I expected, Father's skycars and the Scarab adjusted their course to compensate, which resulted in one skycar falling behind to the left of the Scarab. Then I engaged the skycar's autopilot and opened the door. Ignoring all the alarms that started howling—and Oriana's subsequent screaming—I leaned out, paused briefly, then sent an EMP soaring towards a nearby holo-ad, which exploded in a bright burst of sparks. The skycar behind the Scarab jerked to the right as the driver instinctively dodged away from the sparks, a move that sent it careening into the Scarab—specifically, right into the critical heat sink.

The Scarab careened out of control, spinning around and descending like something out of an action vid. It eventually crashed on the pavement below, taking out another skycar along the way. That left just one pursuer, who was forced to fall back in order to stay aloft. Just as I had planned.

I hit the accelerator and sped around the corner. As soon as the building had cut off line-of-sight to the last of Father's minions, I quickly decelerated, steering the skycar towards the right while sending a signal with my omni-tool. A second skycar—one that looked precisely like the one I was driving lifted off, clearing a space for me to park. Just in time, too—no sooner had I touched down when Father's last skycar appeared. The driver spotted the decoy skycar—courtesy of Niket—and took off in hot pursuit. I decided to give them a few minutes so Father's men and women would be thoroughly bamboozled by my red herring. Besides, Oriana was still crying.

After quieting her down with a combination of "Ba, Ba, Black Sheep" and a recitation of the periodic table, I took off again and heading for the starport. To my future. To Oriana's future.

To our freedom.

* * *

**Now**

My eyes started scanning the departure terminal for Oriana as soon as we got out of the elevator. I didn't know why. There was no guarantee that I would recognize her—we might have had the same genetic code, but growing up in different environments could result in vastly different physical appearances. Besides, the terminal was bustling with asari, batarians, humans and several other species, which would make it difficult to spot...

...

"There she is."

I didn't realize I had said those words out loud until I saw Shepard and the other squad members look around. To be honest, I didn't care. All I could see was my sister. Looking closely, I could see certain shared facial features, but that was about it. Even if she had looked exactly like me, it would have been hard to tell we were related. Watching her, I saw how she was enthusiastically chatting with an older man and woman—obviously her foster parents—about something, waving her arms and gesturing with enthusiasm and animation. At one point she stopped, looked at one of the monitors and shook her head in clear exasperation and annoyance. Her posture, her very movements, they all looked so natural. So free. So... so normal.

"Oriana?" Shepard guessed.

At some point, I must have said something or nodded or gave some sign of confirmation. For once, my infallible memory failed me. All I could think of was: it had been worth it. All my struggles, all my sacrifices, all my constant vigils—they had all paid off. Oriana had had the normal life I had wanted for her. "She's safe," I murmured. "With her family." A family that loved her, that cared for her. The kind of family I had never had.

A sudden emotion ripped through me, searing me with the pain of... not envy. Surely I wasn't envious of Oriana and her happiness. I would certainly never wish that she had anything less. **(9)** "Come on," I said briskly, before I could dwell on that any further. "We should go."

Shepard looked at me blankly. "Now?" he asked. "Don't you even want to say hello or something?"

Now it was my turn to look at him in confusion. What did he expect? For me to walk up and say "Hi, long time no see. I'm your twin sister, even though I'm almost twice your age. I dragged you from a life of misery from the father who created both of us—and countless other rejects—in test tubes to carry on his business empire. The reason you never met me until now was that I'd been working with a bunch of pro-human terrorists to keep you safe and hidden. So what's new?" Right, that would go over _real _well. That would ruin her life. Destroy the normal life I'd worked so hard to give her. I couldn't do that. Why couldn't Shepard understand that?

"It's not about what I want," I tried to explain. "It's about what's right for her. The less she knows about me, the better. She's got a family. A life. I'll just complicate that for her."

Now Shepard looked... it was hard to describe. At first I thought it was pity, but that wasn't quite right. It was a mixture of dawning comprehension and sadness. Sadness for _me_. I don't think I had ever seen Shepard look that way before. I don't think _anyone _had ever felt that way about me before. "Look," he said at last, "she doesn't need a full debriefing, but would it really be so bad for her to know she has a sister out there in the galaxy who loves her?"

Someone out there. Someone who lov...

Again, I felt a blaze of emotion. I looked away, reminding myself of all the reasons why it was such a bad idea to even _consider _what Shepard was suggesting. But it was harder to recall those reasons. All of my previous concerns were suddenly being washed away in a flood of poignant desire and _longing_. The possibilities seemed endless_. _To actually see my sister up close with my own eyes instead of through hacked vid-cams. To hear her voice, her laughter with my own ears instead of audio recordings. To talk with her and hear about events through her own words and her own perspective instead of piecing together the facts through dispassionate reports and analyses. To interact with my sister like a normal person. To _be _normal for once in my life. It was all I could do to stay upright.

"I... I guess not," I whispered, belatedly realizing that I was staring at Oriana again.

Judging by his movement, I think Shepard had wanted to give me a nudge or something. Small wonder: I had been standing still for over a minute. "Go on," he prompted, tilting his head towards Oriana. "We'll wait here."

I took a tentative step forward, scarcely believing what I was doing. Then another. And another. Before I knew it, I was briskly walking towards her, eagerness fuelling every step. At long last, I would meet my sister. Not as a cherished ideal to protect or watch over from afar, but in person. We could talk about, oh I don't know, all sorts of things. Normal things.

She spotted me, of course. Small wonder, the way I bore down on her and her foster parents with such clear intent and focus. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of her. I opened my mouth...

...and realized that I hadn't the slightest idea what to say.

I just stood there, staring at my sister. She stood there, staring back into my eyes. The eyes of some stranger who was wearing—oh my God, my usual outfit was so _revealing_! What must she think? Oh, this was a horrible idea. What was I thinking? What was Shepard thinking? This was all his—

"Um... hi?"

It was Oriana. She'd taken the initiative to make the first move. "Do I know you?" she asked.

Somehow, that question jolted me out of my mental paralysis. At least, it gave me a place to start. "No, I don't expect you would. You were just a baby when I helped you find your foster parents."

Oriana's foster parents—no, her _real _parents. If not by blood, then by every other measure—looked at each other in concern and wordlessly took a step closer to Oriana. Their obvious protectiveness and concern reassured me to no end. "I don't remember meeting anyone like you," the father—Benjamin—said slowly. "Who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Miranda Lawson, and no, I wasn't there in person," I explained. "However, I did screen the applicants who applied to be Oriana's foster parents and eventual guardians. I wanted only the best for you. I wanted to make sure that you would be well looked after and cared for."

"That sounds like a social worker," Oriana observed. "But... you're not a social worker. Or someone in the foster care system. If you were, you would have kept in regular contact. Personal inspections. E-mail communiqués. Even a name cited in an invoice. And your name hasn't come up anywhere. Believe me, I checked."

"You have?" the mother—May—asked, looking at her in astonishment.

"Oh come on, Mom," Oriana said in equal parts affection and exasperation. "Of course I did. I've been checking ever since you told me I was adopted. You know I only did it because I was curious. As far as I'm concerned, you're still my mom."

"I'm not surprised," I chuckled, much to my surprise. When was the last time I chuckled? Maybe during one of my conversations with Niket, back when I was a teenager. But enough about that, and all the mixed feelings that went with it. I was talking with Oriana at last. Don't screw it up. "Curiosity is something we—"

Damn it. Maybe Oriana hadn't noticed my slip.

"We what?" she asked. "Share?"

Damn it. I screwed up.

"Because you kinda look like me. I mean, obviously you're older. And have nice taste in clothes. Really, they're soooooo amazing. Very flattering, the way they show off your..." Her eyes widened. "Oh God, I'm being too... I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean to point out—or imply—or... geez, this is so embarassing... um, help? Oh, shoot me now."

She babbled when she was nervous. This was something I never knew about Oriana. This was... I had never imagined this possibility in any of my theoretical scenarios. **(10)** "You have good taste in clothing yourself," I replied, hoping to ease past her awkwardness. Through sincerity, not empty flattery—her clothes were of the latest style, yet well within her family's budget.

"Oh, thank you," she blushed.

She blushed. I didn't know that either. For some reason, that made the next bombshell easier to drop. All this time, I had wondered how I would broach this particular subject, and had used my inability to calculate a reply with a guaranteed success rate as justification to keep my distance. I still didn't have a guarantee. This could all go horribly wrong. And yet, I somehow felt that now was the time to tell her the truth. It just seemed to flow so naturally from my lips: "The reason you observe a physical resemblance is that we're related. I'm your sister."

May gawked at me.

Ben's eyebrows skyrocketed.

Oriana activated her omni-tool.

"DNA scan program?" I guessed.

"Best one I could buy," she shrugged. "Not that there weren't any bugs. Had to modify the scanning protocols to eliminate contaminants from extraneous sources. And don't get me started on all the work to overhaul the genomic reconstruction algorithms. I mean, really, randomly inserting nucleotides when a match can't be determined? With no regard for whether the resulting codons would make any sense or how it would interact with the rest of the subject's genome?"

That's my sister. I felt so proud. "It's funny how most of the software out there fails to incorporate simple things like that," I agreed. "Not without buying a premium package or waiting for multiple patches."

A beep interrupted me. Oriana looked at the results and did a double-take. "Ori?" May asked softly.

'Ori.' I liked that.

"The DNA scan results... it's an exact match. Aside from a few epigenetic differences, her genome is _exactly _like mine. But... how... I mean, you're so much... older... I don't understand..."

"It's a long story," I interrupted gently, "and I don't have time to tell it all. But I'd like to start. If you're interested, of course."

"Interested?" Oriana repeated. "All my life I've wondered if I had any siblings. And now the answer's found me."

She leapt forward and flung her arms around me. "Yes, yes, of course I'm interested."

My arms automatically reached around to hug her. To hug my _sister_. Oh God, this was... this was now officially the happiest moment of my life.

Oriana belatedly remembered her parents. "Um... Mom? Dad? If you don't mind?"

"Of course, Ori," May smiled. "With all the delays in departure, I think we have some time to kill. You go catch up. We'll give you some space."

That was easier than I'd expected. At least Ben seemed a little more hesitant to trust this stranger who'd mysteriously catapulted herself into his daughter's life. Still, it was clear that May was determined to give me the benefit of the doubt, as she tugged on Ben's arm and practically dragged him a few metres away.

Ori and I found a couple seats at a nearby cafe and sat down. We ordered cappuccinos and pastries—she got a praline pear danish while I got a cheese and onion quiche—and proceeded to talk. For two glorious, wonderful hours. The best two hours of my life.

And it was all thanks to one man.

* * *

_(1): Miranda is no doubt referring to her own preference for using both technology and biotics. _

_(2): __Miranda exaggerates somewhat. While Shepard persisted in scanning every planet of every system the Normandy visited, he eventually stopped mining when he realized he had more spare minerals than he needed—particularly iridium, he complained he had far too much iridium and nothing to spend it on. He did admit, however, that he would launch a probe if a decent deposit of element zero was detected. _

_(3): I found it fascinating that she unknowingly employed a turn of phrase that Shepard himself was fond of. _

_(4): Readers may recall that Miranda went to great lengths to secure her sister's happiness and chance for a brighter future._

_(5): It's interesting to see the contrast between Miranda effortlessly cowing Mr. Ryker into arranging a meeting with the Illusive Man and her struggle to tell Ms. Chambers that she wants to see Shepard. Perhaps the difference was that she knew Oriana had had a normal upbringing, and thus had more to lose._

_(6): This account provides a rare glimpse into Miranda's relationship with her childhood friend, one that is made all the more poignant by how their next, and last, encounter would unfold._

_(7): Miranda may be overly romanticizing the ideal of a normal life, having never experienced one herself. Or maybe she's just dreaming of the normal life that most people take for granted. _

_(8): At the time of Miranda's escape, the Scarab was still in a proof-of-concept phase. While it would eventually excel in urban combat and support, it was unable to adopt additional roles without compromising operational performance, leading the way to more modular gunships like the A-61 Mantis._

_(9): One of those two sentences is true; one is not. _

_(10): The fact that there was more than one belies any previous suggestion that the dream of actually meeting and talking with her sister had never occurred to her. _


	4. Miranda Versus the Prankster

_Author's Note: Hi! Random Equinox here. I just wanted to thank everybody for reading, following or favouriting my novelizations and fics. A big thank you goes to those of you who went to the extra trouble of actually posting a review—no matter how long or short they may be, it goes a long way towards validating all the thought and effort I put into each and every chapter._

_I'd also like to thank_ **Patient131071** _and_ **Janizary** _for pointing out that I lowballed Miranda's IQ. I've since bumped it up from 131 to 181._

_A big heartfelt thank you goes to **chris dee** for being one of the best betas out there. I couldn't have gotten this far without your invaluable suggestions, grammatical corrections and zany comments._

_Finally, I wanted to thank everyone for reading, lurking, following and/or reviewing my fanfics and novelizations—and what better way than to have you decide what fanfic I should pursue next? If I get a few more reviews for the Hero We Deserve and The Hero Who Loved Me, then I can explain what exactly I have in mind. Further details can be found on my profile._

_Now back to Miranda and the riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma known as Shepard..._

* * *

**Miranda Versus the Prankster**

For the record, I used to have a sense of humour.

Strange, I know. How can the ice queen laugh? How can the bitch enjoy a good joke? The truth is, it depends on the joke. I would never laugh at a juvenile or immature attempt at wit. Crude allegations, blatantly sexual innuendos... that sort of lowest common denominator drivel is so, well, juvenile. So average.

But jokes and jibes that displayed a keen sense of wit? Clever double-entendres and wordplay? That subtle twist or hint, smoothly turning the tables? That I liked. Maybe it was the thrill of getting the upper hand and outthinking the other player. Though I would never admit that out loud. While it was the simple truth, most people would simply think I was bragging and take offense. And while I really should be above those concerns, there are times when you want to minimize the amount of distractions in your life.

I suppose I also have my father to thank for my appreciation of humour. He might have indulged, to use his terms, in a bit of witty repartee to deliver the final crushing blow to a particularly annoying competitor or rival. But he generally disapproved of humour. The province of lesser people who used it as a pathetic attempt to compensate for their failure, he said. Looking back, perhaps that's why I secretly nurtured my sense of humour—to spite him. My one little act of rebellion. A stepping stone, if you will, to the move that changed my life.

Mind you, I didn't really have to hide my funny bone, as no one seemed to recognize it. The few times I bothered to tell a joke, it went completely over the recipient's head. It was discouraging, to say the least. What did that mean? Was everyone around me too cowed and scared of me—or my father, or both—to laugh? Were my jokes too subtle for them? Or was I just too serious? Either way, it was another failure. A little one, to be fair. But when joke after joke falls flat, for whatever reason, all those failures add up. So... I guess at some point I just stopped trying to be funny. I gave up. **(1)**

I still made keen observations of the people and events around me. Noted all the little absurdities that cropped up. Kept track of the people who noted these things and, more importantly, how they showed their awareness. Everything from overt laughter to more non-vocal cues such as body language. It started out as reading enemies—current and potential ones—to anticipate their next move. Applying this talent to something less serious was refreshing. And it provided some small comfort for this particular failure, one that I needed so very badly for some reason.

This talent helped me notice something unexpected about Commander Shepard. Which, in hindsight, was not all that surprising.

One of the first instances was when he was recruiting Kasumi Goto at the Citadel. He was his usual self: polite and diplomatic, thoroughly and exhaustively curious, conveying interest and concern for Kasumi's plight that actually bordered on genuine—no, it _was _genuine. I knew that now. While she took pains to pretend she was talking to us through a VI interface, I knew she was actually broadcasting her comm signal from a hundred metres behind us. Benefit of genetically enhanced hearing, you see. Anyway, she decided to conclude the conversation before anyone wondered why Shepard was supposedly talking to himself and looking 'silly'.

I still remember his response: "Funny. I thought making me look silly was all part of the plan." His lips quirked into a smirk as he said that. And there was this _glint_ in his eyes. This laughter that didn't quite make it out of his mouth, but was just as joyous for all its silence.

Then there was our first trip to Omega—under Shepard's command, that is. I'd been to that ever-so-delightful pisshole myself more times than I'd care to remember. He'd asked where the shops were, knowing all too well that he was ignoring Aria's express command, issued through one of her many flunkies, to present himself before her. I approved of that move. Just the right amount of defiance to show that he was a strong and independent man, without crossing the line into foolhardiness or recklessness. Few men—or women, to be honest—knew how to navigate that line without tipping over.

But I digress.

I told him that the shops were in the opposite direction he was facing. For some reason, I found the thought that the great Commander Shepard was lost rather amusing. It was all I could do to suppress a smile. When he realized he was facing the wrong way, I saw that glint again. He was laughing again, I was sure of it. At himself, this time. If I was right, he had a sense of humour. One that included self-deprecation. However, he didn't see the need to voice it out loud.

At least, that's what I thought until Shepard got around to talking to Aria, the self-appointed ruler of Omega. She started by listing numerous labels to explain her position in Omega's nebulous hierarchy, including the position of monarch. Queen, to be precise. Shepard promptly cracked a joke. "All hail the queen," he said. Out loud. To _Aria_. Perfect timing, perfect delivery. And then he followed that up with a quip about liking her One Rule.

Regardless of when or how it manifested, I noted more and more examples of this humour. I don't know why I bothered mentally cataloguing these occurrences. Maybe it was because I liked to flatter myself by thinking no one else had noticed. Maybe it was because none of the official logs, psychological evaluations or second-hand accounts Cerberus had collated ever hinted at this side of Shepard. Maybe it was because he'd displayed the same form of subtle wit I myself had, with the difference being that he chose to develop it in that way instead of secretly nurturing it out of fear of being chastised or ridiculed.

I later found myself revising that assessment. While he certainly had a finely honed sense of wit, the 'subtle' part seemed situational at best. This fact was made abundantly clear one day when Shepard made an unexpected detour.

He was busy mining systems for minerals, which we needed to upgrade all sorts of things, from weapons to biotic amps to omni-tools to the Normandy herself. I wasn't surprised when he guided the Normandy towards the closest mass relay after exhaustively scanning the latest system. I was surprised, however, when he took us to the Sol system. All the planets there had long since been depleted of any worthwhile deposits. Why was he taking us here? Specifically, why was he taking us to...

No. He wouldn't.

As I watched through the surveillance feeds, he put us in geosynchronous orbit around the seventh planet. A wide grin spread over his face as he stabbed the probe launch controls. _"EDI?"_ he said out loud.

"_Really, Commander?" _EDI asked.

"_Say it."_

"_Commander, this seems wasteful and counterproductive to our mining efforts. Perhaps—"_

"_Say it,"_ he said, his voice equal parts commanding and mischievous, even over the speakers. He launched another probe and waited. It was a testament to EDI's programming that she gave an audible sigh before complying with Shepard's order.

"_Probing Uranus," _she dutifully reported.

Needless to say, everyone in the CIC cracked up. News of Shepard's stunt spread throughout the Normandy like wildfire. **(2) **

I found myself wondering whether he'd ever exhibited this particular trait before. Given that all our documentation had proved to be most unhelpful, the only way to know for sure was to ask someone who'd known him in the past. At the time, that limited my choices to three people. Dr. Chakwas may have been reticent to share any information to preserve doctor-patient confidentiality—and, I suspect, out of loyalty to Shepard. Jeffrey Moreau would either be too scared of my reputation to provide any coherent information or attempt to deflect my inquiries with increasingly lewd commentary in order to protect Shepard. That left one more person. Granted, he'd also be loyal to Shepard, but he was the one individual who'd had a chance to observe him during _and _between missions. **(3) **

Yes, out of all the available options, Garrus Vakarian was the best choice. He'd shared numerous conversations with Shepard. He'd sought out Shepard's aid on a personal mission during his hunt for Saren. He'd fought alongside Shepard throughout countless battles. Some reports from Alliance personnel who'd observed them together had thought that there might have even been a mentoring relationship of sorts between the two. I could believe that. The kind of interaction between the two suggested a level of trust that went beyond one following the other's orders. Look at how Shepard promptly appointed Garrus as leader of one of the teams, despite concerns of Garrus's mental wellbeing.

You'd think that I would be reluctant to talk to Garrus considering that he wasn't human. You'd be wrong. I'll admit, there was a distressingly vocal and growing movement within Cerberus that was adamantly, even virulently, anti-alien. I wasn't part of it. There was no logic or sense behind that faction's foolish vision of dominance by way of xenocide. The probability of any long-term goal towards human dominance succeeding by that route was virtually nil. The simple truth is, I had no compunction about working with other species, so long it did not jeopardize or impede the progress of humanity. Granted, I wouldn't shed a tear if an alien or two had to die to advance our goals, but neither would I go out of my way to kill aliens. In the long run, it's more practical to keep any alien contacts alive as long as possible. That way, we could get the maximum benefit out of that working relationship.

To reiterate, I had no problem about working with non-humans. Sometimes, it was a necessary evil. Sometimes, it might actually be a pleasure. Working, and fighting alongside, with Garrus was most definitely the latter. He was with Shepard when they encountered some of our cells during the hunt for Saren. He knew what we stood for and how our projects... sometimes encountered unfortunate setbacks. Yet he never once raised his voice in anger or protest about working for us. Never launched into diatribes against the evils of Cerberus. Instead, he poured himself into making the Normandy as ready as possible. Much like Shepard had, he accepted that we were the only ones doing something about all the colony abductions and was willing to put aside his differences and work towards the greater good. And work he did. No one put more hours into maintaining the Normandy's weapons than Garrus—I could think of several humans who could learn from his work ethic.

And his performance on the battlefield... at first, I thought Shepard assigned him as Team Two leader to ensure he had an ally in place for some eventual coup against Cerberus. Or maybe as some kind of cronyism. But I soon saw how his tactical prowess rivalled Shepard himself. He led his team with the easy confidence born of experience. More than once, he surprised me—and Shepard, judging by his reaction—by coming up with an observation, insight or tactical plan that was instrumental to our winning a fight. It was refreshing to work with someone so... so professional.

The question was how to ensure Garrus's cooperation. It was one thing to work together towards the common goal of defeating the Collectors, whether by upgrading the Normandy or by fighting next to each other during missions. It was another thing entirely to ask him to give any insight he might have on an ally and... and friend to what he no doubt regarded as an ally of necessity. A trade would be the best way to obtain what I sought. Exchange something he needed to know for something I needed to know.

I decided to tell him about the status of the surveillance devices in Gunnery Control. The present status, that is—he'd discovered and disabled all but one of them. Like Professor Solus and Shepard. However, Solus had returned the surviving surveillance device to me. Shepard, out of some perverse sense of glee, had chosen to re-route the feeds to other vid-cams throughout the ships or connect them to various extranet sites. The randomness of his choices showed both his ingenuity at computer hacking and the humour that I was trying to understand. The last surveillance device in Gunnery Control, however, was still active and transmitting. Garrus might be more receptive if I volunteered that information in exchange for his assistance.

Naturally, I'd only give that information after he told me what I needed to know. "Mr. Vakarian," I started as I entered Gunnery Control. "I would like—" **(4)**

"Ms. Lawson," he greeted me. "A moment, please: I'm in the middle of a calibration."

Naturally, Garrus was in the middle of a calibration. He was _always _in the middle of a calibration. It was a running joke amongst the crew. Even I knew that, though I had obtained that knowledge from the surveillance feeds, not random gossip or 'scuttlebutt'. I don't do gossip unless I'm forced to do so for the mission. And I had been far too busy for that lately.

Naturally I had anticipated this scenario, which was why I didn't try to force his immediate attention. Not only would he ignore me, he'd be less likely to volunteer any intel. The resulting lack of cooperation might jeopardize both my immediate mission _and _the overall mission against the Collectors. Instead, I had established a remote connection between my omni-tool and my computers before leaving my office. That way, I could do some work while waiting for him.

It took Garrus a full ten minutes before he was finished. Plenty of time for me to sign off on the daily maintenance reports, assess the latest intelligence from Cerberus, double-check that the next shipment of supplies would be waiting at our designated drop-off point on the Citadel and reset the vid-cam feed from the lone surveillance device in Shepard's quarters—his latest hacking had sent the signal to Ms. Chamber's quarters. I didn't need to see her model the latest in stripper attire or practise her lap-dancing routine. I really didn't.

"My apologies for the wait, Ms. Lawson," Garrus said at last. "Did you want something?"

"Yes," I nodded.

...

...

"Well, this should be good," Garrus muttered.

My glare was half-hearted. For some reason, I was hesitating. It took me a moment to realize why. It took me another moment to decide what to do about it.

"I... came here to make a—there was something I wanted to know. About Shepard."

Garrus tensed up. "Are you going to try and force me to talk?" he asked. "Or were you planning on trading information?"

I took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

"The latter had crossed my mind," I admitted. "But that sort of thing, trading information in that fashion, is something you do between business partners. Or people you're trying to use as a means to an end. It's not something you should do with someone you respect. Or trust.

"And you've earned both my respect and trust. For your sheer dedication and professionalism in dealing with us and working with us despite your previous encounters with Cerberus. For your frequent displays of brilliance and competence on the battlefield. For all the times you've strived to protect us—not just Shepard, but all of us. Even Jacob and I.

"So that's why I'm just going to ask," I concluded. "It's up to you whether or not you want to answer. It's your choice."

There was a moment of silence. I couldn't believe I'd just admitted that out loud. More importantly, I couldn't believe how much I meant every word. That moment stretched out for what seemed like an eternity.

"All right," Mr. Vakarian—_Garrus_—said at last. **(5)** "Ask away."

I suddenly realized that I'd never really told Jacob how much I respected and trusted _him_. Oh, I gave him the occasional nod of approval when he did what I asked. Maybe even a verbal or written compliment when he did something particularly exceptional. But taking the time to actually express that to Jacob? No, I hadn't done that. Yet another mistake I'd made where he was concerned. I decided to rectify that oversight.

After I finished this conversation with Garrus, that is. **(6)**

"You know about Shepard's... mining expedition to the Sol system," I started.

"Where he 'probed Uranus'," Garrus nodded, a smile spreading over his face. "Heard about that when I was getting lunch."

"Was he always like that?" I asked. "Back when you first met him, I mean?"

Garrus stared at me. "That's your question?"

"Yes."

"Why do you want to know? Or is this something Cerberus wants to know?"

Of course he'd ask that. "Just me," I confirmed. "It's been distracting, to say the least. Most of the people that I've met who indulge in such juvenile activities don't make it to any level of seniority or authority. Shepard seems to be the exception."

"He does a lot of things differently from most commanders, doesn't he?" Garrus agreed. "I always thought he was different, right from the first time I met him. A human actively seeking non-humans out and asking them to join his crew? Not something you see every day. Nor do you see commanders talk to every single person in his crew."

"Three times a day," I added.

"I know, right? How does he find the time to do that?"

"He foists all the work and responsibility on someone else so he can wander off and socialize," I groused.

"So lazy," Garrus tsk-ed.

"Tell me about it."

"And no other commander would obsessively search through every crate, container, barrel and corner for something to take," Garrus added, "be it a weapon, omni-tool or upgrade. Even if he has to hack or bypass a lock to do so."

"His kleptomaniacal tendencies are really worrying sometimes," I agreed. "At least he isn't doing it during combat situations anymore."

"You know," Garrus mused, "back in my C-Sec days, any commanding officer who did that would have been put on administrative leave, if not removed from the force."

"Any commanding officer in Cerberus who did that would have been spaced out the nearest airlock," I returned.

"There were times where I considered doing just that," Garrus sighed. "But there were 1984 regulations against that sort of thing, or anything that was similarly... final." He smiled. "Of course, there were no regulations against doing some investigating on the side, finding out what was bought with those illicit proceeds, determining which mistress received those gifts and e-mailing the financial statements to his wife."

"Well done," I approved.

"Thank you," Garrus replied. "Almost made up for getting beaten to a pulp by his brothers."

This was actually quite fun. It was the first time in two years and fifteen days that I found myself enjoying a conversation. Even if it was part of the mission. Though we were getting sidetracked. Whether or not that was Garrus's intent, I decided to bring things back to my original inquiry. "Did Shepard display any signs of humour back when you were hunting Saren?"

Garrus considered that question for a full minute. "Not at first," he said at last. "It seemed to me that what he displayed was confidence. Confidence in himself that he could figure his way out of whatever hornet's nest he'd stumbled into. Confidence in the rest of us that we could do our part, do whatever was necessary, to sort things out. Which we did. Shepard—you've probably seen this by now—Shepard has this way of inspiring people to do more than they would have ever believed possible."

I always thought of it as a burning fire that would make us willing to follow Shepard into hell itself. But I kept that to myself. Instead, I just smirked and added "Even if it means following him into one disaster after another."

"At least he won't be lonely," Garrus chuckled. Then he leaned forward. "But after a while, I did see something. In his eyes. It was... every once in a while, it looked like his eyes were laughing. I know, it doesn't really make sense. But I did see him laugh once or twice. His eyes had this certain... way about them. And then sometimes I'd see his eyes do the same thing, even when he wasn't laughing. I think it was his way of dealing with things. When you blunder into as many—what is the phrase? Insect's hive? No, hornet's nest. That's it—when you blunder into as many hornet's nests as we did during our hunt for Saren, it gets to you. All the scary things. All the horrors. I think you need to react to that. So you either laugh it off or you go insane. Or you just shut yourself off from everyone and everything."

Somehow, I didn't think he was talking just about Shepard. "And what do you do?" I asked keenly.

Garrus shook his head ruefully. "Usually I find myself being volunteered by Shepard to beat off the hornets."

"I see," I said. I really did: Garrus and Shepard really were more similar than I had realized. If nothing else, they used humour as a coping mechanism to maintain some semblance of sanity and balance in a universe that seemed so crazy and chaotic. "You bring up some interesting points about Shepard and the reasons behind his actions. They do make sense, once you put it that way. But I have to know: did he ever do anything overt? Anything as obvious as this Uranus stunt?"

"Well..." Garrus paused for a moment. "As a matter of fact, there was something," he said. "I didn't understand the significance until Ashley—Lieutenant Williams—explained it to me. A human tradition that apparently occurred on the first day of the fourth month of each solar cycle."

"April Fool's Day," I identified.

"Precisely," Garrus nodded.

Something occurred to me. "You know," I said slowly. "The first of April is next week."

"Really?" Garrus frowned. "You don't think..."

"If what you told me about Shepard is true..." I shrugged.

We looked at each other. "Next week should be interesting," Garrus said at last.

"To say the least," I agreed. "What exactly did he do?"

"Well..."

* * *

Garrus's account was quite... revealing. It was with increasing trepidation that I counted down the days and hours until April 1st. I actually woke up at 0000 hours, much to my annoyance. But nothing happened.

Nothing would happen until I booted up my computer after my morning exercises—biotic and physical. I was in the midst of changing into my uniform when—

"_Welcome to Mistress Lawson's House of Pain!" _

—oh no.

"_How may I serve you?"_

Shepard.

As no one was around to see me, I allowed a slight frown to appear on my face before initiating a trace program to track whatever Shepard had planted in my system. In my annoyance, I actually missed hitting the 'Enter' key the first time around and had to try again.

"_Click me baby, one more time!"_

This was already eating into my schedule. I couldn't risk downloading any Cerberus intelligence reports, review the last shift's reports or do anything else without slowing down the trace program or, worse, force the program to miss something. So I was left with nothing else but tapping my finger on the desk. Again, a sign of impatience that I permitted since no one else was here.

"_Oh someone's been very, very naughty!"_

While the trace program itself had been affected, at least it found the code that Shepard had inserted. Now that I knew what I was dealing with, it was only a matter of keystrokes and taps before this annoyance was scrapped. Sighing in relief, I started to download the latest—

"_So this ain't the end—I saw you again today.  
I had to turn my heart away.  
You smiled like the sun—kisses for everyone.  
And tales—it never fails!"_

Damn it! Far from eliminating Shepard's juvenile prank once and for all, I'd inadvertently activated another one. Doubtless, this was Shepard's intent.

"_You lying so low in the weeds.  
I bet you gonna ambush me.  
You'd have me down, down, down, down, down on my knees  
Now wouldn't you..."_

Cursing at how he'd successfully derailed my schedule, I got up from my desk and stormed out of the room.

"_...Barracuda?" _**(7)**

Any hope I'd entertained of escaping the musical insanity was dashed when I heard a pounding rock beat over the speakers.

"_How come you always such a fussy young man?  
Don't want no Captain Crunch, don't want no Raisin Bran.  
Well, don't you know that other kids are starving in Japan?  
So eat it. Just eat it." _

Following my ears, I entered the mess hall. Gardner was scratching his head, his face showing a mixture of bewilderment and annoyance. I could relate. The mess hall was crowded with the day shift's crew, all excitedly chatting away. From what I could gather, Gardner and I hadn't been the only ones affected.

"_Don't want to argue, I don't want to debate.  
Don't want to hear about what kind of food you hate.  
You won't get no dessert 'till you clean off your plate.  
So eat it.  
Don't ya tell me you're full.  
Just eat it. Eat it..." _**(8)**

"I'm going to take a stab in the dark and guess you got a dose of Shepard's humour too."

"Yes I did," I sighed, turning towards Garrus. "Something about a 'barracuda.' What did you get?"

"When we were hunting Saren, we touched down on Feros. Wrex and I had a little argument, which Shepard broke up with a... 'song'," Garrus replied. "I got that same song again. Just like old times." **(9)**

Garrus didn't enjoy that song the first time around, judging by the pained look on his face, and two years hadn't done anything to change that opinion. "Did everyone receive a unique song?" I wondered.

"No," Garrus shook his head. "Most of the crew, well, the ones on Deck Three anyway," he quickly amended, "got the same song. Something about 'taking care of business'?" **(10)**

"My musical education tends to lean more towards classical than popular culture, much less obscure pop culture," I admitted.

"Ah," Garrus said.

"Well, I hope Shepard is happy," I grumbled. "No one is going to get any work done while this... this prank goes on."

"It doesn't have to," Garrus disagreed. "The music doesn't interfere with any actual functions. I've already gotten two calibrations done. Well, the second calibration _should _be done by now. I had to get out of Gunnery Control before that song got stuck in my head," he elaborated when I shot him a querying look.

He had a point. Maybe I had given up too quickly. "I see," I said thoughtfully. "In that case, maybe I'll get a few things going and see how the rest of the ship is faring."

"I'll take Deck Four," Garrus volunteered.

"Then I'll take Deck Two." I had taken three steps towards my office before turning back. "Garrus?"

"Yes?"

"You missed a surveillance device."

"You mean a bug?"

"Exactly. Far left corner of Gunnery Control, above the coolant valve."

"Oh. Um… thank you."

"No. Thank you."

He looked surprised. So was I, come to think of it. I had never volunteered information so freely. Nor had I bothered with such social niceties before. Why the sudden change? Shepard's influence, perhaps? Putting that thought aside for the time being, I re-entered my office. The two songs blared over each other, sending a confusing message about having more chicken and pie while making up something quick. I programmed the computer to begin five or six different things before departing. As I entered the elevator, I prayed that Shepard hadn't slipped a musical number into the elevator speakers as well. He hadn't, shockingly enough. Perhaps he had thought that he'd caused enough grief as it was.

All I knew was that I had twenty-five seconds of blessed peace before the elevator doors opened.

"_No, I don't even know your name, it doesn't matter.  
You're my experimental game, just human nature.  
It's not what good girls do, not how they should behave.  
My head gets so confused, hard to obey._

"_I kissed a girl and I liked it,  
the taste of her cherry chapstick.  
I kissed a girl just to try it,  
I hope my boyfriend don't mind it." _**(11) **

Stifling a groan, I walked over and tapped on Chambers's shoulder. "Operator Lawson," she greeted me brightly. "I wanted to tell you that somebody—"

"—hacked into the mainframe and inserted songs to automatically play when you logged in," I interrupted. "I know. Has it caused any disruption?"

"Maybe a little bit," Chambers shrugged. "Some people find it annoying, others... not so much."

Judging by the way her head was bobbing from side to side in time with the music; I gathered she was one of the latter.

"But some people have occasionally gotten more than just music," Chambers added.

"_Look at me! I'm surfing the extranet for porn!" _a loud voice screeched from the cockpit.

"HEY!" Moreau howled in indignation.

"Case in point," Chambers concluded as everyone within hearing range broke into laughter.

"I see," I sighed. "Well, I better remind the crew that we have a mission to complete."

As it turned out, a simple walk around the CIC was all that was needed to quell the hilarity. My genetically enhanced hearing did hear several hushed conversations start up after they mistakenly thought I was out of earshot. It seemed I had traded one distraction—Shepard's joke—for another—the unusual appearance of the XO.

Shaking my head, I headed for the Armoury. At least Jacob would make more sense. The doors opened with a hiss...

"_I like big butts and I cannot lie.  
You other brothers can't deny."_

Shepard. Again.

The music—if you could call it that—was so loud, it drowned the sound of the doors opening. As I strode in, I saw Jacob lower the weapon—carefully, I was pleased to see. I didn't want to consider what might happen if the M-920 Cain was dropped—he was handling to the table with a frown. Heading over to the nearby computer console, he tried muting the volume.

"'_Cause you notice that butt was stuffed  
Deep in the jeans she's wearing.  
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring." _

Seeing how that didn't work, Jacob attempted to fix the problem. Unfortunately, while Jacob might have many talents, fixing computer hacks was not one of them.

"_Oh baby, I wanna get with you  
And take your picture."_

In desperation, Jacob tried hitting the computer console. Needless to say, it didn't work. "Jacob?" I called out, before he could cause any damage.

"_My homeboys tried to warn me,  
But that butt you got makes me so horny" _

He jumped and whirled around.

"_Ooh, Rump-o'-smooth-skin  
You say you wanna get in my Benz?"_

Then he abruptly paled—an impressive feat, considering the natural colour of his skin tone.

"_Well, use me, use me,  
'Cause you ain't that average groupie!"_

"M-Miranda!" he stammered. "T-this isn't what it looks—sounds—this isn't my fault! I don't know—it just happened. One minute I—"

"_I've seen them dancin'  
To hell with romancin'!"_

"I swear I didn't do this!" Jacob insisted, eyes widening. "You know me, this isn't something I'd do."

Of course he wouldn't. Jacob was far too serious and far too respectful to ever do something like this. He didn't need to make these unnecessary explanations. "Jacob," I tried. "It's all—"

"_She's sweat, wet,  
Got it goin' like a turbo 'Vette!" _

"I don't know how it started," Jacob babbled.

Of course, the lyrics of this... song and the timing were rather unfortunate. "I believe—"

"_I'm tired of magazines  
Sayin' flat butts are the thing."_

"I don't know how to turn it off. I would if I could, I swear!"

"I know," I tried once more.

"_Take the average black man and ask him that  
She gotta pack much back!"_

"Oh God," Jacob wailed before lunging for the computer console again. Somehow, he had the presence of mind to reboot the computer. Unfortunately, the music continued to play unabated.

"_So, fellas! (Yeah!) Fellas! (Yeah!)  
Has your girlfriend got the butt? (Hell yeah!)"_

Jacob shot me a look of abject misery. Taking pity on him, I gave him an understanding nod—at least, I hope he knew it was an understanding nod—and left the Armoury. I still had the rest of Deck Two to investigate, after all.

"_Shake that healthy butt!  
Baby got back!" _**(12) **

* * *

Mercifully, Shepard's prank was short-lived. It only lasted as long as the song, which varied depending on when each crew member logged into their account. Still, the whole thing was over by 0814. By 0815, Shepard sent a mass e-mail to the crew:

_To: [Normandy SR-2]_

_Hope everyone wasn't too distracted or offended by today's surprise. Now that you've had your fun, it would probably be best if you resumed your normal duties—we haven't chastised the Collectors yet._

_Shepard_

I scowled at the e-mail. Why he—how could he do this? Cause so much havoc and think he could get away with it. When was he going to learn that there were consequences for his actions? I paused in the middle of reading a maintenance report and pondered that last question.

Consequences for his actions...

An idea germinated inside my head, quickly growing and flourishing into full bloom. Out of long habit, I kept my anticipation down to a mere lip-twitch while opening a comm channel. As I waited for the recipient to pick up, I quickly finished and signed off on the maintenance report—and several others.

"_Ms. Lawson?"_

"Garrus," I replied, opening the latest intelligence reports. "Have you recovered from this morning's traumatic experience?"

"_If you're talking about the music, I think I had finally gotten that song out of my head when you reminded me about it. Damn thing's starting up again." _

"My apologies," I returned. Out of a perverse sense of curiosity, I had found that song on the extranet while verifying that the latest shipment of supplies had been delivered to the designated drop-off point. It truly was as horrifying as Garrus had intimated. "I suppose you are feeling less-than-charitable towards Shepard at the moment."

There was a pause. I winced as I realized what I had just said and how it might be interpreted. "Let me clarify," I hastily added, "I was hoping to get your assistance in pulling a prank of our own. To get back at Shepard."

"You_? Pulling a _prank_?" _

Why did he sound so surprised? "Shepard's been brought back from the dead, we've recruited supposed terrorists, bounty hunters, criminals and vigilantes, and we just endured an April Fool's Day joke from our commanding officer. I think it's safe to say that stranger things have indeed happened."

"_Point taken."_

Another pause.

"_What did you have in mind?"_

"I will intercept Shepard during his noon meal and tell him—"

* * *

"You're unbelievable."

Shepard looked up with surprise as I sat down across from him. No doubt because I didn't usually eat out in the mess hall. More efficient to take my meal back to my quarters and eat while doing work. "What?" he managed.

"Do you know how much time was wasted dealing with your prank? How many minutes were lost trying to eliminate your pervasive programming? How many hours of work were lost with the inevitable gossip and chatter about this unexpected occurrence? You must be feeling very pleased with yourself right now."

"You have no idea," Shepard replied, a smug grin spreading over his face.

"Why did you do it?" I asked. "Why?"

"Because it was fun."

"Fun?" I sputtered. "_Fun? _Were you dropped on the head as a child?"

Shepard raised an eyebrow. "You've read my medical records," he pointed out. "You should know if I was."

"So are you saying you did or you didn't get dropped on the head?" Garrus asked, joining us at the table. Right on cue.

"I didn't," Shepard replied. "Which Miranda should know."

"'Cause I would've bet you did get some brain damage," Garrus continued. "It would explain a lot."

"Now what is that supposed to mean?" Shepard demanded, turning to Garrus.

While he was occupied, I pulled out the bottle from my pocket and uncapped it. Two squirts into his coffee were all it took. One squirt probably would have sufficed, but I wanted to make sure.

"You're just lucky that we can salvage something from this morning," I grumbled, catching Shepard's attention again.

"Was it really that bad?" To my surprise, Shepard actually looked concerned. It almost made me feel guilty for getting back at him.

Almost.

I raised an eyebrow. "And if it was?"

"Then I would have to say that you really should loosen up," he shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee.

And there goes the guilt. "Is that an order?"

"Maybe. What would you say to that?"

"I would say that you are in command," I sighed, "and that I am… entirely at your mercy."

Shepard grinned at me. "I like that. I really do."

I gave a slight smile in return and focused on my lunch. It would help me ignore his smile, with all its roguish charm, mischievous glee…

…and blue-stained teeth.

* * *

_(1): A sad and painful admission, particularly coming from a woman like Miranda. The fact that it was perfectly understandable given her upbringing doesn't help. _

_(2): While extremely unprofessional, this incident is certainly not out of character for someone who truly knew Shepard._

_(3): This suggests that the following conversation took place before Tali'Zorah vas Normandy was recruited._

_(4): The dichotomy behind her use of Garrus's familiar name in her personal musings and his surname out loud is quite interesting. I believe her experiences, both past and present, made her extremely hesitant when it came to trusting people. Her mode of formal address was her way of creating a distance that would shelter her from any emotional risk or betrayal. _

_(5): Which made Miranda's subsequent and conscious change in address all the more significant. It is fascinating to see how Miranda's original intent was quickly subverted into an affirmation of the working relationship her and Garrus, which improved dramatically after this conversation. _

_(6): Miranda made good on that promise. _

_(7): 'Barracuda,' released by the rock group Heart in 1977. _

_(8): 'Eat It,' released by Weird Al Yankovic in 1984. It was a parody of Michael Jackson's "Beat It," which was released in 1983._

_(9): 'Barbie Girl,' released by Aqua in 1997. _

_(10): 'Taking Care of Business,' released by Bachman-Turner Overdrive in 1973._

_(11): 'I Kissed a Girl,' released by Katy Perry in 2008._

_(12): 'Baby Got Back,' released by Sir Mix-a-Lot in 1992. Shepard later apologized to Jacob, swearing that he never meant to time the song—with its blatantly sexual lyrics—to play when Jacob and Miranda were in the same room. Jacob apparently needed a lot of convincing before accepting Shepard's apology. Curiously, no such apology was extended to Kelly for the coincidence of the timing of her song and Miranda's arrival. Perhaps this was because neither Kelly nor Miranda found the situation as embarrassing. _


	5. Miranda Versus the First Kiss

_Author's Note: The poll is now open. Readers can vote on which fic I cover next: my take on 'Lair of the Shadow Broker' or a more original fic involving a certain calibration-loving turian. Cast your vote and don't forget to keep reviewing—you never know what further treats lie in store! _

**Miranda Versus the First Kiss**

Being told I am beautiful doesn't have as much impact as one might think.

Of course I'm beautiful. Attractive, gorgeous, stunning, attractive, dazzling, lovely, hot and other descriptors have also been used. For normal people, that would be a compliment. For me, it's just a fact. I was designed that way, after all. Father had analyzed every variant of every gene—on their own and how they would interact with other genes, proteins and so forth—to find the optimum mixture that would make me physically attractive, not to mention grant me genius-level intelligence, enhanced senses, superior strength, an accelerated healing factor and numerous other benefits. It's hard to feel flattered when you are painfully aware of that fact, especially when your father and "creator" reminds you at least once every solar day.

It's also hard to be flattered when you know most of the people who say those things only want to curry favour with your father, get into your pants or both. As I matured, I found that fewer people fell exclusively into the first category and more people fell into the other two. Perhaps this was empirical evidence of the potential of power as an aphrodisiac. Either that, or humanity had a suppressed streak of pedophilia in their collective psyche. **(1)** Regardless, I resolved to use that physique as a tool. Clearly, my body was a source of distraction. The sooner I accepted that as fact, the sooner I could use it to my advantage. The more time they spent ogling me and generating fantasies, the less time they would spend noticing my efforts to manipulate them. In short, I could use my body to use them.

When I was with Father, I used clothes to manipulate colleagues and competitors—custom-tailored, hideously expensive and all on Father's expense account. He knew that, of course, but that little act of making him foot the bill made my life slightly more tolerable. When I joined Cerberus, I was given an expense account as well—only with significantly greater funds and a notable lack of restrictions or remote monitoring. My first expense—or expenses—were another set of clothes. This time, however, I had a goal and purpose in mind: I wanted both the psychological edge from displaying my physical assets and the practical benefits of a military-grade hardsuit.

My Mark I suit—designed and tested in virtual simulations—was mostly focused on enhancing or optimizing the hardware of the best military-grade hardsuit available to special-op units at the time. It focused on the practical aspect at the expense of the aesthetic—which meant it looked like the standard "armour with boobs" available to women throughout the galaxy.

The Mark II prototype required more ingenuity, as the primary goal was miniaturizing the optimized hardware components into a more sleek and body-forming hardsuit. I eventually separated the various components and functions into separate layers. The outer layer was composed of a flexible ablative armour of my own design, one that would display my ample curves while dispersing biotic, kinetic or thermal energy —I found that using hexagonal plates provided the most efficient configuration. The second layer was a liquid crystal lattice that channelled the power requirements for all the suit's functions—shield generation, computer processing and so on. It also had a port that connected to my biotic amp, along with a customized VI that would monitor the amp and automatically adjust its performance as necessary. I considered it a point of pride that I invented this feature two years before Alliance teams incorporated a similar aspect into their L4 implants and the Ascension Project. The third layer was another liquid crystal lattice. This one, however, was designed to amplify force, granting me all the increased strength and speed of a traditional hardsuit without the bulk. The fourth layer was basically a silk lining with a thread count of 2300, partly for moisture-wicking and partly for sheer comfort. A woman needed her little luxuries, even a genetically enhanced woman.

All my simulations on this model concluded with outstanding results, so I placed an order to manufacture it. The delivery arrived three days later, proof of how quickly even a cutting-edge piece of equipment can be manufactured and delivered without the unnecessary delays of bureaucratic red tape. It was still a prototype, mind you, so it looked like a silver jumpsuit rather than the black-and-white uniform handed out to Cerberus agents. Eager to test it out, I stripped out of my clothes—naturally, I had disabled the vid-cams beforehand to thwart any voyeurs and perverts who were looking for a free show—and put it on. I quickly discovered two things. First, the third layer was much more reactive than my simulations had anticipated. In fact, it was so reactive that a normal human would have shattered their bones with a single gesture. It was only my superior reflexes, enhanced constitution and years of training and discipline that saved me a trip to the intensive care unit.

Second, and more importantly, the suit generated a lot of heat and was unable to dissipate it as effectively as a normal, albeit bulky, hardsuit. Within ten minutes, I was mildly uncomfortable. Within twenty minutes, I had reached the point where a normal human would have fainted and was forced to restrict my movements to a minimum. Within twenty-five minutes, I was on the verge of passing out. Safety protocols kicked in at the twenty-six minute mark and shut down the suit before I collapsed from heat exhaustion or suffered brain damage.

Having gained an increased appreciation for the value of field-testing new and unproven technologies, I incorporated the lessons learned from the Mark II prototype into the Mark III suit. A simple modification of the tertiary layer retained the force amplification aspects while providing greater feedback control, which would allow me to move as freely as I wanted without fear of hurting myself. More importantly, I added a fourth layer composed of hydrostatic gel—composed of a unique mixture of my own creation—that would regulate both the suit's temperature as well as my own body temperature. It also could be pressurized to a wide variety of conditions, from the crushing pressure found in deepwater trenches to standard atmospheric conditions to the vacuum of space. I also added upgraded software for several of the hardsuit's programs. Finally, the primary ablative armour layer was modified to be soft to the touch and painted a brilliant snow white. As a final touch, I added a lining of full-grain, vegetable-tanned black leather—attached to the shoulders and sleeves—and a gold-orange Cerberus patch. Coupled with knee-high black leather boots that I ordered from a luxury clothing site on the extranet, and I had what unsuspecting onlookers would swear was a skin-tight cat suit that clung to every curve of my body and left nothing to the imagination. No one would suspect that it was fully capable of matching or exceeding the best military-grade hardsuit in a combat situation. **(2)**

The Mark III suit was a success off the battlefield. It provided the exact visual distraction I had desired, which contributed to my multiple successes in any number of tasks—from manipulating Cerberus colleagues to negotiating deals with outside parties.

It also elicited the usual amount of drooling, lusting and jealous commentary from my colleagues and associates. Things like "Fucking tease", "Bitch doesn't know how to have a good time" or "Must be a hellcat in the sack" or simply "Slut." I brushed them off, or tried to. Ignoring the labels or comments was easy. Ignoring the fact that it set me apart from everyone else, kept me isolated and alone... that was harder. Like my genetic engineering, it was a fact I had to accept, but it was still hard to swallow.

Even my sexual encounters, such as on the occasional mission when I found some unwitting target attractive enough to indulge in a brief bout of physical release, were different than the average man or woman. Don't get me wrong—I enjoyed the rush of hormones as much as anyone else. But where any other woman would focus solely on how she felt, how her partner's skin/features/etc. felt and so on, I did that while monitoring my environment for possible hostiles, planning the remaining stages of my mission—if I was on one—and the multiple short-term and long-term projects I was currently involved in or overseeing. Simple multi-tasking, thanks to my genetic engineering, years of training and absence of any distractions caused by romantic nonsense. **(3)**

Still, in my moments of weakness, I found myself wishing that I could just relax. Wishing that I could simply enjoy myself without any concern or care other than the present.

Wishing that I didn't feel so alone.

* * *

The Mark IV suit was designed during my mission with Shepard to fight and defeat the Collectors, thanks in part to his voracious appetite for new upgrades. A more significant factor was his rampant and seemingly insatiable predilections for kleptomania—in fact, his ability to acquire credits and technologies surpassed any of my projections. I seized the opportunity this presented to upgrade the software and hardware of my present suit and sent the requisition order when it was complete. On a whim, I expanded the black leather finish to cover the entire suit as an additional outer layer, with a few careful placements of gold-orange tubing and patches for aesthetics' sake. As an added bonus, it arrived a week after I rescued my sister.

Another bonus was the fact that 69% of the funding for the Mark IV suit came from siphoning off credits from Shepard's expense account, the one filled by Cerberus funding and Shepard's illicit proceeds. I might have been able to fund its construction with more of Shepard's credits if it wasn't for the e-mail Ori sent after her rescue, which clued Shepard into the possibility that I had remote access to his private computer and accounts. That unintended consequence was more than compensated by the fact that I had saved myself a substantial amount of money and had rescued Ori from our biological father.

More importantly, I had established two-way contact with my sister after eighteen years, seven months and—at the time—four days. It wasn't long before I was finding ways to become even more efficient at completing my work so I could devote more attention to—and derive more satisfaction from—what became a daily, hour-long, encrypted text conversations. The highlight of my day, much to my surprise and delight. Another reason to be grateful towards Shepard.

Not that I did nothing but chat during these hours, mind you. I still found time to multi-task. These tasks, however, tended to be more along the lines of ongoing computer simulations or data downloads. Something that could run unobtrusively in the background while I chatted with Ori about random aspects of her life, however mundane or dull they might seem to her. Her favourite academic classes. Her favourite genres of literature or music. What she liked to do in her free time. Her pet peeves. Little things that I may have suspected but never knew for sure until now. And it was all thanks to Shepard, who'd fought long and hard through Eclipse mercenaries to secure my sister's freedom, then went above and beyond with the quiet support and subtle prodding I needed to finally meet my sister face-to-face.

The subsequent appreciation towards Shepard for all he had done, much without any prompting or manipulation, lasted much longer than I had expected. Just one of many little things that was unanticipated. Like the way the stark change in the Mark IV suit's colour pattern was carefully calculated to draw even more attention from men and women in general—and, much to my delight, one man in particular. Like the way my reaction to his thrice-daily visits, and the subsequent adjustments to my schedule they caused, evolved from irritation and annoyance to anticipation and delight. At first, I ignored these emotions, as unusual as they might be. I had far more important matters—administrative, logistical, tactical and strategic—to attend to. These emotions persisted, however, along with a strange yearning and longing. Eventually, I had to stop, face the situation and analyze it.

To a normal woman, these occurrences might be a sign that she cared for someone. That she had feelings for someone. That she _loved _someone. But that couldn't be what happened to me. I wasn't normal, after all. I didn't have time for lo—I didn't have time to care for someone that way. I couldn't become so emotionally attached to someone and risk developing blind spots or vulnerabilities that other parties might take advantage of. For me to actually have feelings for—

—oh no.

It was impossible. Shepard was my commanding officer. My incredibly competent, irritatingly mischievous, ruggedly handsome—

—no.

This couldn't be happening.

I mean, he wouldn't even admit he was part of Cerberus, even though we had given him resources, a crew, a ship and—most importantly—_brought him back from the dead._ He kept saying he was working _with _us instead of on me—for us. _For _us. Shepard insisted on correcting anyone who might say otherwise. With that deliciously warm, deep, sexy—

—no.

What was I thinking?

Yes, he had been quite agreeable in taking the time to rescue my sister and her adopted family. He had been instrumental in reuniting me with my sister. He had helped me deal with the betrayal and subsequent death of Niket. So maybe I felt grateful. That didn't mean I had _feelings _for him. Just because I was willing to share a little bit of my first conversation with Ori with him didn't mean I _cared _for him. Just because I had this sudden urge to place a hand on his arm, feel its warmth through the sensors installed in the fingertips and palm of my new Mark IV suit, only to pull back at the last moment didn't mean I actually—

—no.

No, no, no, no, no.

These observations, and the reactions they provided, might seem like love, but it couldn't be. It was impossible. It must be. I was Operator of this particular Cerberus cell and my duties and responsibilities were clear. Crystal clear. If there was any possibility, even the faintest iota of a suspicion, that my opinion and feelings regarding Shepard had moved beyond the realm of professional interaction or even casual friendship, it would mean that my objectivity and operational effectiveness had been compromised. I would therefore be obligated to report this development to the Illusive Man, request a replacement as XO of the Normandy and senior Cerberus officer, remove myself immediately and... and never see Shepard again. I did not want to do that. I did not want to go away and never see Shepard again. Imagining the scenario, no, imagining the _multiple _scenarios that might end in that particular outcome made my lip tremble. It caused my heart rate to decrease by... by a lot. It instilled this horrible, sickening _void _somewhere inside me. So, quite obviously, whatever I was experiencing was not—could not—be l... it couldn't be love. I was so relieved when I had arrived at that conclusion. The possibility of that had caused me a significant amount of distress, and occupied far too much of my time, but now that logic had proved beyond all doubt that I was safe and had not been compromised, I could focus on my duties. It was a great comfort to have logic on my side. **(4)**

That sense of relief and calm lasted... well, it lasted quite a while. Every time these... emotional occurrences came back, I had only to repeat my analysis to recover my equilibrium. To borrow an aphorism, all was well with the galaxy. As well as possible considering bi-daily brushes with death and the grim duty of preparing fora suicide mission, anyway.

Then Shepard and I kissed and logic got flushed out the airlock.

* * *

It started when Shepard went to retrieve the Reaper IFF. A little early for my liking, but he later assured us that he wasn't planning on going straight to the Omega 4 relay. Just as well—we had a few pressing matters to attend to and the Reaper IFF proved to be more difficult to integrate than we expected.

What was more surprising was that we received assistance. From a geth. A single geth operating without any backup. Yet somehow it was capable of higher reasoning, complex thought and detailed analysis that should have only been possible with a large group of geth. Furthermore, it could talk. Compared to that, the large hole in its chest and the N7 shoulder pauldron it sported were almost inconsequential.

Naturally, Shepard wanted to talk to it. He wanted to talk to everyone. I think he'd talk to his fish and his hamster if he could. Well, the hamster at least—I joined Shepard on the elevator ride down to the shuttle before we boarded the derelict Reaper. He said the fish had just died and he didn't want to waste time travelling around the galaxy looking for replacements, so he decided to acquire the Reaper IFF instead. To be honest, I wasn't sure if he was joking or actually being serious. Knowing him, it was probably both.

My curiosity was more focused on the idea of a single geth that was somehow capable of performing tasks that should only have been possible with a group of geth. Was this specimen a statistical outlier or the next step in geth evolution? Whatever the reason, it presented an opportunity. This geth might go a long ways to appeasing the Illusive Man's concerns.

I should explain that. **(5)**

Shepard might have been willing to accept Cerberus intelligence and resources, and he wasn't going around sowing seeds for a revolt against Cerberus, but he wasn't exactly going out of his way to assist us either. The most notable sign of resistance was when Cerberus requested that Shepard retrieve one of our operatives—or his data, if he had been killed—from an Eclipse base on Lorek. Shepard hit the base, eliminated the mercs, confirmed that the operative—a man by the name of Tyrone Rawlings—was dead and retrieved the data. Rather than send it to Cerberus Command, though, he chose to transmit it to Councillor Anderson instead. The Illusive Man was not amused. Initially, he left it alone, no doubt hoping to pass it off as a lone act of rebellion. But his private e-mail to me after the Lorek assignment was quite telling:

_From: Illusive Man_

_Miranda:_

_EDI has informed me that Shepard chose to send Rawlings's data to Councilor Anderson instead of Cerberus. I don't believe any disciplinary action is necessary at this time. However, I would like to reiterate your objectives:_

_Primary Objective: Identify the party or parties responsible for the attacks and abductions on human colonies. Stop them by any means necessary._

_Secondary Objective: Evaluate and determine whether Shepard would be amenable to formally joining Cerberus._

Previously, he had focused his attention on the primary objective. The fact that he felt it necessary to bring my attention to both objectives indicated that he was concerned of Shepard's compatibility with our cause.

Shortly after the events on Horizon, I got this e-mail:

_From: Illusive Man_

_Miranda:_

_In light of the information we have received from Horizon, I am revising your objectives:_

_Primary Objective: Stop the Collectors by any means necessary._

_Secondary Objective: Evaluate and determine the best way to win Shepard's loyalty for Cerberus._

_I had already taken steps towards the secondary objective by leaking intel through our Alliance contacts, suggesting that Cerberus was behind the abductions, had selected Horizon as the next target and that Shepard had faked his death to join our ranks. While this intel is obviously false, it succeeded in driving a wedge between Shepard and the Alliance. Use this opportunity to determine whether Shepard is now more open to our goals and objectives._

Unfortunately, Shepard maintained the same neutral and mildly disapproving position that he had presented from the beginning. It didn't help that the falsified intel that drove a wedge between Shepard and the Alliance also caused a similar rift between Shepard and Cerberus as a whole. The Illusive Man was less than pleased.

_From: Illusive Man_

_Miranda:_

_Your reports indicate that we may have more difficulty winning Shepard to our side than we originally anticipated. Please redouble your efforts towards the secondary objective. Shepard has proven to be a highly effective asset, and it would be a shame to lose him after all the time, resources and manpower we have devoted._

I had warned him earlier that this development might occur. In fact, I had calculated that the likelihood of this scenario coming to pass was at least 78.4%. Needless to say, I declined to say anything along the lines of "I told you so." Possibly because I didn't want to know exactly what the Illusive Man had in mind when he ordered me to 'redouble my efforts.'

It was with this e-mail in mind that I suggested that Shepard deliver the geth to Cerberus, both as a valuable piece of rare technology and as a peace offering. Shepard ignored my hints. I had anticipated this possibility, so I moved to my backup plan: talk to him in private and make him aware of the Illusive Man's concerns.

Of course, he decided to keep Cerberus at arm's length and make a joke about it—something about being in trouble because he was tardy in submitting a membership application to Cerberus. I could have continued trying to get him to change his mind. There were several more paths of dialogue I had planned... but... what was the point? He would keep resisting and, for some reason, I didn't feel all that motivated to press him on the subject. We only had fifty-nine seconds left before the electronic countermeasures I had deployed would shut off. That wasn't enough time. Yes, that was a reasonable excuse—explanation. A reasonable explanation for backing off. I mean, I did try after all.

Just before he left, he paused and turned to me. "Thanks for the heads-up, Miranda."

At least he wasn't keeping _me _at arm's length. In fact, he sounded grateful. For some reason, that fact gave me this warm, tingly feeling. "You're welcome, Shepard," I replied, shooting him a brief smile.

His eyes lit up. That warm, tingly feeling intensified, along with this strange gnawing sensation.

I suddenly realized that I might have a problem.

It was easier to focus on the gnawing sensation than the warm tingling, so that's what I did. I analyzed that feeling while Shepard re-activated the geth and pestered it with questions. No doubt a synthetic would have infinitely more patience than an organic. Not that it mattered: Shepard seemed to be very good at extracting intelligence. I'd never given him credit for that. I'd never given him credit for a lot of things.

Maybe that was why I was feeling so uncomfortable. Shepard deserved to know how my opinion of him had changed. How my respect for him had significantly improved. I'd told Garrus how much I appreciated his work, after all. I had done the same with Jacob. Surely I could do the same to Shepard, once he—

—once he walked through my door. I motioned for him to sit down. "Well?" I prompted.

While I disabled any security protocols or surveillance devices that might have somehow been installed while I was absent, Shepard proceeded to give me a detailed summary of his meeting with the geth. A geth that was part of a faction of geth that opposed the Reapers. In fact, the _majority _of geth opposed the Reapers. Of course, the geth had determined the best way to do so was to join Shepard.

"And you're all right with the idea of a geth running amok," I stated more than asked.

"Yep," he said smugly.

"Of course you would," I muttered to myself. Suppressing a sigh, I gave in. "As long as EDI keeps a close eye on the geth—"

"Legion," he interrupted.

I looked at him blankly. "Pardon?"

"It—or they—have accepted the name 'Legion'," Shepard explained. "We might as well observe the proprieties."

He had given the geth a name? What the—I gave in. Again. This was very unusual for me. I'd have to explore this in greater detail once Shepard left. "Fine," I sighed. "As long as EDI keeps a close eye on _Legion_, monitors the integrity of our firewalls and is prepared to lock the doors to the AI Core on a moment's notice, I suppose we can give it a trial run."

"Agreed," Shepard agreed. "Now that that's dealt with, do you have a minute?"

He always asked that. Didn't he have anything more original to say? Still, I did need to talk to him, so I suppose a minute or two of time would be required. "Of course. I'd been meaning to speak with you, in fact."

Shepard looked surprised. Good. That gave me the advantage. He looked at me expectedly.

…

Oh. Right. My move. Um…

Feeling suddenly warm, I retreated—moved—to the back half of my room, the part dedicated for my personal space. I sat down on one of the couches, near the end. He followed me and sat down on the other end. At least he gave me some space. Now what was I going to say?

I took a deep breath. Here goes nothing: "I… wanted to apologize."

Shepard didn't have a heart attack. The Normandy didn't spontaneously explode. The Reapers didn't drop out of FTL right on top of us. These were all good signs, so I continued. "I didn't fully believe you'd be up to the task… and it seems I was wrong. Frankly, based on what I've seen, I wish Cerberus had tried to recruit you earlier."

"Apology accepted," he said. "Look, Miranda, I might trust you. But I don't trust Cerberus. Your experiments cross the line."

He trusted me. He _trusted _me. He trusted _me_. This was good. Very good in—wait. He said he didn't trust Cerberus. Right. That was a problem. What did he say? The experiments crossed a line. All right. I decided to go with that. "All the time, yes. But I recall a Spectre who crossed a few lines while hunting down Saren and the geth."

"Only a few," he shook his head. "Not the ones that matter."

"See?" I pounced. "Right there: the fact that you can recognize that distinction where it counts and stand by it instead of indulging in hypocritical behavior is why we'd be lucky to have you. Too many join us out of simple xenophobia. They fight without knowing what they're fighting for. We need more people here for the right reasons."

I meant every word I said. Maybe I didn't realize it at the time, but one of the benefits of running the Lazarus Cell was the chance to get away from all the idiots who thought it would be a good use of Cerberus resources to sneak nuclear devices on non-human worlds and set them off or blow up laboratories and corporations that worked with aliens. Such crude, virulently xenophobic tactics wouldn't work. That was why I had worked with the Illusive Man to carefully handpick every member of the Lazarus Cell, as well as the crew of the Normandy. To get away from such blinkered foolishness and convince Shepard that not every member of Cerberus was like that. It would be easier to get Shepard to join Cerberus and make the changes that were needed if I could demonstrate that there was still something worth salvaging and saving. **(6)**

That was months ago, however. Things had changed. Now, it seemed easier to just get away from the worst parts of Cerberus than to get Shepard to come and fix them. Or maybe just get away. I don't know. Shepard had a way of confusing things—oh. He was still talking. "—'right reasons' being the promoting, supporting and advancing humanity's interests. With your intelligence, you could have done that anywhere. You could have landed any job you wanted to pursue those goals. Why choose Cerberus? Was it just to protect Oriana?"

My mind flashed back to the past. Of a younger me. So young, barely a woman. Looking to save my sister. Looking for something more than continuing Father's dynasty and furthering his precious empire… "It started with safeguarding my sister," I began. "I weighed all the options and Cerberus was the only organization that met my requirements. But… even after Oriana was set up safely on Illium with her foster family, I stayed because I still envy the time Mordin spent with the Special Tasks Group."

"Sneaking around where they're not welcome and doing impolite things," Shepard smirked.

"Working with people as smart as he was, with the manpower and material to do what had to be done," I corrected him, keeping the note of exasperation out of my voice. Honestly, was everything a joke with him? "Cerberus never tells me that something is impossible. They give me my resources and say 'Do it.' And they've given you even more. A new life, a new ship, the Illusive Man's personal attention…"

"That's nice and all, but the best thing he did was to add you to my crew," Shepard interrupted. "I couldn't have accomplished all this without your help."

Now he was being kind. Too kind, because that wasn't true. "You'd have done fine without me," I told him. "I may not have believed it before, but… I don't have what you do—that fire that makes someone willing to follow you into hell itself."

I got up and walked to the window, watching as the stars flew by. "My father gave me the best genes money could buy," I said, not caring how sad or bitter I might sound. "Guess that wasn't enough."

There was a bit of reflection in the window, enough to see Shepard frown. "You always bring up your genetic tailoring," he observed. "It really bothers you, doesn't it?"

Because that was what defined me. Every time someone admired my body, they were admiring the result of all the genes Father selected. Every time someone complimented me for making some brilliant discovery, finishing a series of calculations or completing some analyses, they were really complimenting the tailoring that made me as intelligent as possible. I could go on and on, but... just once I'd like to hear a compliment or feel good about something without wondering whether I'd actually earned it or whether I was just coasting on my genetic potential. "This is what I am, Shepard," I finally replied, too tired to bother repeating out loud what I'd silently wondered all these years. Too tired to care that I'd never admitted this out loud to anyone. "I can't hide it. The intelligence, the looks, even the biotics… he paid for all of that. Every one of your accomplishments is due to your skill. The only things I can take credit for are my mistakes."

"Don't you think you're giving your dad way too much credit?"

Now there's a question I had never been asked before.

"Following that logic, you could say people who haven't received a lot of genetic enhancements can only take credit for their successes and not their mistakes—and history has shown that there are a lot of bone-headed mistakes that have been made over the years," he pointed out.

True.

"Look, your dad may have given you gifts, but you were the one who developed and honed them," Shepard continued. "You were the one who chose to use them. You were the one who decided _how_ to use them. Don't you think you can indulge in a little pride over what you've done with your talents? If nothing else, you directed the team that brought a man back from the dead."

It would be nice to believe that my choices had something to do with it. Even if my genetic potential gave me an advantage, even if my upbringing and environment had nurtured and developed all of my gifts, it would like to believe that I had the final say. If nothing else, Shepard was right: I'd never really had a chance to feel pride over bringing Shepard back. That was the main impetus in accepting the Illusive Man's offer, after all. But I'd never been able to bask in that accomplishment, what with Wilson's betrayal forcing me to accelerate the Lazarus Project to a hasty conclusion. "I suppose you're right…" I conceded.

"Damn straight I'm right," Shepard declared. If I can see it, surely you can… hey. Hey, that's it! It's not that you can't see it—you don't _want _tosee it. You're _jealous_!"

What. The. Hell?

I turned around slowly. Here was Shepard, who had done everything I'd asked of him, helped my sister, said the things I wanted to believe and might actually be able to believe… only to jump to this fallacious conclusion. Where did _that _come from? "What?" I burst out. "Don't be absurd!"

"Oh, I don't know about that," he replied, with this infuriating smirk. "The genetic mutt that the Illusive Man put in charge? That must sting."

"First, it's not a competition," I corrected him. He was still smirking. I really wanted to wipe that off his face. "Second, based on your combat records, you're practically a perfect bloody human specimen!"

Too late, I realized what I said. Sure enough, he let it go to his head. "'Perfect human specimen,' huh?"

"Don't get cocky," I snapped back. Maybe later I could thank him, but right now he had to be put in his place. I took a step forward and glared at him. "I'm the one who put you back together, remember? And I do damn good work."

Shepard took a step forward. Just a step. So how were we suddenly so close? I was now acutely aware of his closeness, the warmth of his breath, the warmth in his eyes. "You certainly do," he said softly.

The next thing I knew, we were kissing. Not like my usual kisses, adjusted based on prior observations of my target to compensate for height, weight, amount of pressure and countless other variables. All I could focus on was his mouth was meeting mine, so deliberate and sinfully lazy and deliciously hot. Somehow my arms found their way to his neck, pulling him closer so this would never, ever stop. His arms grabbed me by the hips and pulled me closer, pressing me against his body, tingling with the promise of so much warmth and comfort and support and demanding nothing in return. I could just let go at last and relax.

Before I knew it, it was over. We were staring at each other, gasping for air, hearts pounding, minds racing over the…

Oh God.

Did I just…

Oh God.

Did I just do what I thought I just did…

Oh God, oh God.

...with Shepard?

Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God...

"What the hell was that?" I managed at last.

Of course, Shepard had a reply. "Back in my day, before mechs were all the rage and everyone was toting these new-fangled thermal clips, we called that a 'kiss.'"

This was a disaster. I had to fix this. Or salvage something from it. Or something. "Oh God, this, um, okay, this doesn't mean anything," I stammered. "We just—God, I need to, er, think. Yeah. I need—work. Right, lots to do, you know, what with, um, stuff and… things. And think. Wait, I already said that. Oh God, I need… I'll talk to you later."

I had never—I repeat, never—stammered like that. Never been so unprepared. Never been caught so off-guard. I had to get back to work. There must be some report to file or article to read. Something that would make sense. Something…

Something that wouldn't have such a smug grin running from ear to ear! "And stop smiling, damn it," I finished, glaring at him before sitting down.

He ignored me for a split second, grinning at me. Then he froze, as something occurred to him. I saw a look of panic entered his eyes, just before he bolted from my room.

Alone at last, I breathed a sigh of relief and ran a hand through my hair. I'd never lost control like that before. Never had so much trouble formulating a coherent plan of action. Never stammered or stumbled so badly. Never been so open about what I _felt._

What was I going to do?

* * *

After two weeks, six days and nineteen hours, I still hadn't arrived at any explanation as to what had happened. At least, not any explanation that helped—I knew that we had kissed. I knew that that meant something. But what would we do next? What did this mean for our working relationship? For that matter, would we be able to keep working together or had we been irrevocably compromised?

I hadn't found an answer to any of those questions when Shepard dropped by. That in itself wasn't unusual—he'd continued his daily visits, as if nothing unusual had occurred. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, as if nothing unusual had occurred. But that incident, that _experience_… we hadn't really faced it yet.

So I didn't really have a plan in mind when Shepard came in and asked "Hey there. You have a minute?"

"I do," I nodded slowly. All this tension was killing me—killing both of us, judging by the look on Shepard's face. "I suppose we should talk."

"Yeah."

We stood there for a few seconds, just staring at each other. "Well—" Shepard started.

"I don't know what this is," I interrupted, standing up and gripping her chair tightly. "If this is stress or blowing off steam or…"

"I don't know," Shepard shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't mind."

"It was a mistake," I blurted out.

Judging by the hurt look on his face, perhaps I shouldn't have phrased it quite like that. But things were so… so _complicated _now. It was simpler, albeit in a headache-inducing kind of way, back when Shepard was just an expert tactician with an unhealthy compulsion for helping half of the galactic population out with their problems and stealing from the other half. "Oh don't look like that," I sighed, walking back to my bed. Maybe some distance would make this easier. "You know it was a mistake. This is no time for emotional entanglement! You and I know more about the Collectors than anyone. We know how _unlikely _it is that we're coming back alive! That... that kiss... I shouldn't have done that."

Shepard wasn't buying it. "If it was that big a mistake," he snapped, "then why the hell did you kiss me? Because you were bored?"

This wasn't going the way I'd planned. "No, I—"

"Because you wanted to fool around with my head? What—all that time spent putting me back together wasn't enough?"

Probably because I never really had a plan. "No, it's not that—"

"Then why?"

I needed to get a handle on the situation before I said something I couldn't take back. "Well—"

"WHY?!"

"BECAUSE I WANTED TO!"

...

...

...

Like that.

What had I done? This was… how could… did I actually…

At some point, I must have sat down on the bed. "Did I say... I didn't mean... oh no. This is... this is ridiculous. Absolutely... what idiotic bunch of hormones thought _now _was a great time for lo…?"

It took me a moment to realize that was me saying, or whispering, those things. I just stared at Shepard, a mix of panic and tension and unfamiliar emotions rushing through me. The wide-eyed, slack-jawed look on his face suggested he was experiencing the same thing. After a minute and thirteen seconds, he finally spoke.

"Look, I want this. I want to see where it goes. I want to see how far it'll go. And I think you do, too. At least, I think you do. You do want this, don't you? I mean, okay, on a scale of one to ten, where one is you'd rather stick your head in a blender and ten is—"

"Yes," I interrupted.

"Huh?"

I was just as surprised as he was. "Yes. Ten. Whatever."

I took a deep breath and quickly considered how we had gotten to this point. The speed at which I came to a conclusion startled me. "I meant what I said earlier: I want this. All of it. It's like… I wanted to ensure Oriana's safety. Her future. Her life. But I didn't realize I wanted to actually see her. To talk to her. To get to know her beyond hacked vid-cam recordings and official records. I never realized how painful it was to watch her from a distance but never be a part of her life until I heard her talk. Not just some recording of her in a random conversation either—she was actually talking to me. And all of a sudden, I wanted a real connection with my sister so _badly_. I guess… I guess I want this too."

The speed at which I blurted all that out startled me too.

"Good to know," he said simply.

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay."

This stunning display of repartee and verbosity was followed by an equally impressive silence. "So now what?" I asked, having decided that it was my turn to start the conversation again.

Shepard shot me a blank look. "Um… most people go on a date. Or grab some coffee."

"I'd rather keep this between us," I admitted, biting my lip. "It's, well, I'm a very private person."

Shepard raised an eyebrow. "Really? I hadn't noticed."

Clearly, that was a joke. I kept my response down to a slight twitch of my lip. After all, I couldn't have him thinking I'd react to anything and everything that came out of his mouth.

"I don't want to broadcast this over the extranet or anything either," Shepard replied. "But you do realize we're on a ship, right? Scuttlebutt's going to pick up on this and spread it around sooner or later."

Based on the secondhand evidence I'd accumulated over the years, he was right. "I know," I sighed, "but I'd rather go for later. If nothing else, it might distract them. Which is another thing—"

Shepard knew what I was thinking. Much to my surprise, I found that fact to be more relieving than alarming. "Our personal… whatever-this-is can't interfere with day-to-day operations, command decisions or the overall mission," he finished. "Agreed. Anything else?"

Actually, there was. On the one hand, it was good that we had finally identified and accepted the change in our relationship. On the other hand, it still left the matter of the next step unresolved. "Only that I have no idea what to do next," I shrugged. "Normally, I'd suggest what you did—a date. A cup of coffee. _Something_. But all of that will raise too many questions. If we're going to do this, I just want something quiet. Just the two of us, without witnesses."

We sat there for another minute, considering various possibilities. Actually, I was trying to think what most people would do for a first date. My experience with such matters was rather limited. So it wasn't that shocking when Shepard came up with a viable option first. "I have an idea…" he said.

* * *

All I had to do was find some cups and plates—which I retrieved while downloading some maintenance and status reports to a datapad for Shepard. It only took me ten minutes. I may have spent another ten minutes resisting the urge to change—it's not like anyone would see us. Besides, I was sure Shepard would appreciate my present attire. I settled for quickly running a comb through my hair, just to make sure I looked my best.

His choice of drinks and dessert was a little odd. Jasmine tea and chocolate-dipped, triple-chocolate brownies don't usually go hand in hand. Still, the tea did smell good. And Gardner's brownies were impressive—even more so considering his lack of formal culinary training. I handed Shepard the datapad while taking a sip of the tea anyway. He sat down, took a bite of the brownie and started filling out reports.

"Thanix cannons are installed and operational," Shepard said. "Apparently it's doubled the power draw of our weapon systems."

"Will they be a problem?" I frowned. Stronger weapons wouldn't mean all that much if our power grid overloaded or collapsed.

"Nah," he shook my head. "Ken said something about tweaking the forward capacitors to compensate. I'm surprised we don't have the same issues with Tali's shield upgrades."

I had the same concern myself before taking a look at the schematics Tali had submitted. Say what you will about quarians, but they know their engineering. "Actually, those upgrades had built-in capacitor sub-systems, so any additional power draw would be minimal."

"That's what Ken and Gabby said," Shepard nodded. "Though that means we won't be able to take on an entire fleet and survive."

And that was a bad thing? "Exactly. As befits a stealth ship, the shields were designed to deflect any attacks the Normandy might take during insertion or extraction. This upgrade simply means that we'll be able to deflect stronger attacks now."

"As long as that includes anything the Collectors can throw at us, I'm fine with that," Shepard declared.

"Agreed."

Having finished the more pressing reports, I opened my e-mail. Deleted the odd junk mail that had slipped through, adjusted my filters, quickly scanned through the e-mails that I was expecting. One of them I was not expecting. For once, that was a surprise. I finished that e-mail and glanced up. Shepard was looking at me. Actually, he was staring at me. "Something I can do for you?" I asked.

"Huh?"

"You were staring," I explained.

"I was?" Shepard asked blankly.

"You were."

"Oh. You were smiling."

I hadn't realized that. "I was?"

"You were."

"Oh. Crewman Rolston sent a thank-you for my efforts in expediting his family's relocation," I shrugged.

"Right," Shepard nodded. "They were on New Canton—oh geez." His eyes widened as he straightened up. "The Collectors hit New Canton. Did they—"

"They were relocated in time," I said. It wasn't surprising to see his concern, but it was reassuring. In the midst of all these adjustments, it was comforting to know that some things hadn't changed. "Their shuttle touched down in San Francisco a week ago."

Shepard breathed a sigh of relief.

"Rolston attached an audio clip," I added, double-clicking on the link. Kelsey, Rolston's one-year old daughter, began bubbling and giggling over the speakers. "That's kinda cute," Shepard said.

"Yeah," I admitted. "It is."

We sat there quietly, long after the clip ended. "What about the armour upgrades?" I asked. "Did they require any adjustments in the Normandy's operations?"

"Yeah," he shrugged. "Something about the added weight throwing off the gravimetric profile, but it was fixed with some Gilbourne and anterior intakes."

Thankfully, I knew what he was talking about. "Rebalancing the Gilbourne coefficients and adjusting the anterior intakes on the second tier stabilizers?" I interpreted.

"Yeah, something like that," Shepard nodded. "Hopefully whatever they did worked."

"If not, Mister Moreau will have something to do besides surf the extranet for porn," I sighed, rolling my eyes.

Shepard jerked his head up and stared at me in disbelief. "You mean you _know _about that?"

Why was that such a surprise? I just raised an eyebrow and gave him a look.

"Right. Of course you knew. Never mind." He returned to scrolling through the datapad and signing off on reports. "I don't know why he bothers," he said idly. "Couldn't he just fill out a subscription to 'Fornax' or something? It only costs four creds per issue."

"I'm delighted to hear you're so knowledgeable about that," I said slowly.

"I'm not," Shepard replied. "That's the price quoted on Marsh's kiosk back on Omega."

"Uh huh."

"I'm not into that sort of thing."

"Mm, hmm."

"Seriously. Hanar don't turn me on."

"Good to know."

"Are you making fun of me?"

...

"Well? Are you?"

I just gave him a sweet smile. Let him interpret that as he liked.

I think it just made him confused, though. Fair enough: he wasn't the only one. I mean, I was actually on a date. Well, a working date of sorts. And it wasn't that bad. It was fun, in fact. More fun than I expected. Mind you, none of this was expected. I didn't plan on any of this, yet I wanted it. I wanted it more than I had realized. Which... well, it scared me. I managed to ignore it during our date. Afterwards, when it was just me and my thoughts? That feeling rapidly grew into this black hole of panic inside me, crushing my insides with terror.

Just before I logged off, a new e-mail arrived.

_From: Shepard_

_Miranda:_

_FYI._

'FYI?' What was _that _supposed to mean, I wondered. I opened the audio file that was attached. A woman's voice poured out from the speakers.

"_I put this battle in a box  
With my military thoughts  
And the days where I was almost at my end._

_"Seems to me quite clear now,_  
_Now that you are here, how_  
_Easily I could begin again._

_"I'm still bloody from last year's war._  
_With liars and lovers untrue._  
_And hey you, with your stars out,_  
_I have no angry words for you."_

As the song continued, the black hole slowly collapsed. It seemed like Shepard was also petrified with the change between us, the way it snuck up on us without either of us knowing and how both of us were just fumbling around, hoping we didn't make a mess of things.

_"I'm still bloody from last year's war,_  
_But no longer drowning in the flood._  
_And hey you, with your stars out,_  
_You've kissed again, don't you see, you've already won._

_"You're still bloody from last year's war._  
_Your bandages, your bullet holes like mine._  
_And I'm here with my stars out._  
_You say you're scared, well, so am I." _**(7)**

Well.

At least I wasn't the only one.

* * *

_(1): This admission paints an uncomfortable and uncompromising light on the baser urges that still haunted humanity and the cruel circumstances of Miranda's childhood that, whether she realized it or not, severely scarred her psyche. _

_(2): This detailed breakdown provides a fascinating account of Miranda's intelligence and inventiveness, as well as providing a thorough explanation of how Miranda could survive fire-fights in such a revealing and supposedly impractical outfit. One should note, however, that it does not explain how she could run around in the battlefield in four-inch heels. _

_(3): I would argue that this suggests a hypervigilance unconsciously placed to prevent closeness or emotional vulnerability, again attributed to her traumatic upbringing. _

_(4): The multiple slips and fallacies in her analysis—and subsequent failure to correct them—suggest otherwise. In her defence, though, she did display some awareness of her developing affection for Shepard much earlier than Shepard ever did. _

_(5): This is the second time that Miranda and Shepard used the same turn of phrase._

_(6): Ironically, the Illusive Man's objective was more along the lines of masking Cerberus's true nature, so as to better secure Shepard's cooperation._

_(7): 'Last Year's War,' released by Sarah Slean in 2006. As a sidenote, Lt. Ashley Williams once told Shepard that she used poetry as a way to convey what she had trouble expressing herself. This might be the clearest evidence that Shepard used old Earth songs in a similar manner._


	6. Miranda Versus the L Word

**Miranda Versus the L Word**

I think Shepard and I were both a little confused about the change in our relationship. Certainly it was a while before we had another 'work date.' The impetus for that was...

...was one of the most difficult experiences of my life.

We were investigating one of Cerberus's cells—Project Overlord. The cell itself didn't mean much, not at first. Cerberus compartmentalization of information meant I didn't knowanything about it. No, I was more concerned about Shepard investigating another Cerberus operation in general.

Shepard hadn't exactly been subtle about his position on Cerberus. He accepted the gift of Cerberus resources, such as the Normandy SR-2, her crew and the Illusive Man's recommended candidates out of necessity and pragmatism. He constantly talked to the various Cerberus operatives out of a perverse sense of curiosity and, as Ms. Chambers put it, a desire to establish a rapport and trust between himself and his crew. However, none of this was done out of gratitude or loyalty. It was almost imperceptible, but there was a certain grudging reluctance to his relationship with Cerberus.

The clearest example of his disapproval was shortly after helping Jack. Which involved the entire squad paying a visit to the Teltin facility on Pragia and finding out what horrors they had inflicted on countless innocent children—the ones that survived, that is—in the name of science, research and progress. Clearly, this was a mistake. An isolated incident of one cell going rogue.

Shepard thought otherwise. He felt it was symptomatic of Cerberus's methodology to do anything, to sacrifice anything, to achieve its goals. That willingness, he felt, meant that Cerberus—and, specifically, the Illusive Man—could ultimately sacrifice anyone. No matter how valuable or useful. No matter what he or she contributed in the past. He also felt that that would also foster a culture of sloppiness, unnecessary shortcuts and inevitable disasters.

I had never wanted Shepard to be wrong so badly. Because he was wrong. He had to be. Teltin was obviously a statistical outlier. And Chasca. And the entire Styx Theta cluster. Why couldn't he see that? Why couldn't he back me up on Aite, when we investigated the Project Overlord facilities and Jack assumed that Cerberus had 'fucked something up again?' Why couldn't...

Why did he have to be right?

Because he was right. Project Overlord had been sloppy. Not enough safeguards. Not enough progress. A willingness to use anyone. To sacrifice anyone.

Even one's own brother.

That was the worst part. How could anyone use his own sibling like that? How could anyone force his own brother into an experiment to satisfy his superiors, knowing full well that said brother was incapable of giving informed consent?

For all my many sins, I had _never _done anything like that to Oriana. I had done everything in my power to prevent anyone—from my father to some lowly scumbag—from harming my sister. But Dr. Archer had deliberately and knowingly inflicted an unimaginable trauma to his own brother, one that David might never recover from, because he saw him as nothing more than an unexpectedly valuable tool.

The worst part was that the Illusive Man approved of it. Oh, not officially. He said he never specifically authorized Dr. Archer to forcibly merge David with the VI—which was technically true. He said he didn't condone it. And then, within the same paragraph, he said it was a shame Shepard chose to rescue David because it would set back Cerberus's efforts to understand and control the geth.

Set back. Control.

The same reaction to the reports and reviews on the Teltin cell. And Chasca. And the Styx Theta cluster. And countless other missions that Shepard didn't know about. I hadn't felt so wronged—so _betrayed_—since... since I found out what Father really thought of me. Which was thirty years, seven months and sixteen days ago. **(1) **

I couldn't deal with that. Not at first. I... I yelled at Shepard. After inviting him to tell me he was right all along. He didn't, of course. He was right, but he wasn't going to say it. Not that time. Which made this whole thing even worse.

How had things gotten so wrong?

How had _I _gotten it so wrong?

How could I—the one with all the intel, all the protocols, all the plans—make them right?

* * *

I was still pondering all these questions—and had gotten nowhere closer to finding the answers—when Shepard ordered Joker to set course for the Amada system. It took me a mere second to generate a list of items in the Amada system that would pique Shepard's interest. One thing was definitely the most probable choice—the final resting site of the original Normandy.

At least I was right about that.

Shepard later told me that Admiral Hackett had contacted him with a request. He gave a sympathetic nod when I rolled my eyes—I had read the reports on the numerous detours Shepard had taken on Hackett's bequest. It seemed my observations on how ridiculously banal some of these 'missions' could be were spot on. This request, though, was significantly more thoughtful and touching. It seemed Shepard had been chosen to place a monument to honour the SSV Normandy. More importantly, Hackett had asked him to find any signs of the men and women who had gone down with the Normandy, so as to offer some means of closure to their families and loved ones.

We'd swept Alchera with our sensors before Shepard departed, so we knew that the planet was completely deserted. Still, I kept one screen in my office set to monitoring his bio-signs and location, as well as the latest sensor logs, while doing my usual work.

Part of that usual work included receiving regular security reports and vid-recordings from EDI. Most of them were flagged for the usual keywords, covering the usual topics. How the mission was faring, what were our chances of defeating the Collectors, how was your day and so on. But there were an unusual number of vids that focused on a new topic. Quickly finishing off the latest analysis, I saved my work and began perusing the recordings in detail.

The first one was between Garrus and Dr. Chakwas. They were just outside sickbay, which was the only reason there was a recording—there were no vids inside sickbay, you see. At least Cerberus had some standards... and that was the first time I'd ever thought of it that way.

Back to the recording. It seemed like Dr. Chakwas was haranguing Garrus:

"_I can't imagine what it's like for Shepard," _Dr. Chakwas was saying._ "Walking around the Normandy for the first time in two years. Remembering all the people who went down with the ship."_

"_It's that last one that sticks for me," _Garrus replied._ "Thinking back on all the men and women I served with. That _he_ served with. Walking through their final resting place and thinking about all the things they used to do."_

"_Like Talitha," _Dr. Chakwas said with a laugh._ "Oh, she was so enthusiastic. Always performed her duties with so much joy."_

"_Or Silas. He never stopped talking about how great the Mako was and how it was like old Earth vehicles. And he'd always find me while I was calibrating the Mako and couldn't get away."_

"_I still remembering all those long talks with Germeen," _Dr. Chakwas smiled. _"Reading and discussing academic papers on the merits of various naturopathic remedies and seeing how the data and analyses fit with her own real-life experiences."_

Garrus chuckled. _"And that was before she used those remedies. Remember Alexei? He was hoping to impress Ashley with some home cooking... only to give himself a bad case of food poisoning. Germeen's home remedy was the only reason he was out of commission for one day instead of one week."_

"_And now they're all gone," _Dr. Chakwas sighed, abruptly becoming more serious.

"_Yeah."_

"_I'd like to pay my respects to them."_

"_So would I," _Garrus agreed.

"_Well, maybe we can do that," _Dr. Chakwas suggested. _"After you come in for another checkup."_

"_That's a good idea," _Garrus agreed. _"Paying respects, that is, not the checkup."_

"_I need to see how you are doing. How your scars are healing. How your body's adapting to the mandibular implants. You did come aboard under rather traumatic circumstances."_

"_I'm fine."_

"_Do I need to declare you unfit for duty?"_

"_You wouldn't do that." _Garrus didn't sound too convinced when he said that.

"_I am Chief Medical Officer on this ship."_

"_Fine. I'll go once my next set of calibrations is complete."_

"_As I recall, that's what you said last time." _

"_Yeah, well..."_

The rest was Garrus trying to escape from another checkup, Dr. Chakwas refusing to let him go and Garrus ultimately giving in. I closed that recording and opened the next one.

_Everything all right, Tali?" _Daniels asked.

_"What?" _Tali asked distractedly. _"Um, yes. Fine. Everything's fine."_

Daniels didn't seem to buy it. _"Really? You seem a bit more distracted than usual—Kenneth!"_

Donnelly had taken the opportunity to walk over to Tali and peek over her shoulder. _"She's right, Tali," _he said, not looking the least bit ashamed. _"You usually finish your portion of the maintenance before I do. But you haven't even started yet."_

_"Maybe I am," _Tali allowed. _"Knowing that Shepard is walking through the remains of the Normandy is bringing back old memories."_

_"It always hits you hard when you lose a ship, especially one you served one," _Donnelly said. _"Must be even worse for you. I mean, I know that quarians depend on their ships for everything."_

_"Not that he's trying to stereotype or anything," _Daniels hastily added, perhaps fearing that Donnelly may have offended her.

_"No—well, that too," _Tali admitted. _"For my people, losing a ship is one of the worst things that can happen. We depend on our ships for everything: to shelter us, to grow up in, to make acquaintances and friends, to serve on. Keelah, we even name ourselves after the ships we grew up on or serve on. To lose a ship is like... like losing a piece of yourself._

_"But I was actually thinking about all the people I met on the old Normandy. Especially the ones who... who didn't make it. Like Pressly."_

_"Pressly... Pressly..." _Daniels frowned. _"Wasn't he the XO?"_

_"He was," _Tali nodded. _"It... it wasn't easy getting to know him. He didn't exactly trust non-humans. There were others, but he was the... most vocal. It took a while for him to warm up to me."_

_"How did that happen?" _Donnelly asked.

_"Shepard had given me a copy of geth data that I planned to use as my Pilgrimage gift," _Tali replied. _"I wanted to thank him again and didn't want to wait until the next time he dropped by Engineering, so I started looking for him."_

_"That must've taken a while," _Daniels laughed. _"If he acted back then like he does now, he's always on the move." _

Tali joined in the laughter. _"Exactly. I kept missing him. Eventually I found myself in the CIC. Pressly saw me and came over to ask what I was doing—he was probably worried that I was trying to steal something."_

Made sense. The CIC would be where most of the sensitive or classified information would be located.

_"So what did you do?" _Daniels asked.

_"I told him that Shepard had helped me find a Pilgrimage gift and wanted to thank him. To be honest, I thought he'd chase me off or something. Instead, he asked what a Pilgrimage was. So I told him. He seemed surprised at the idea that the Pilgrimage was a rite of passage where we proved ourselves worthy to join a new ship by finding and offering something of value. I guess, up until that point, he thought quarians were a bunch of free-loaders and thieves."_

"_After that, he was a bit more cordial. Asking how I was doing after surviving another one of Shepard's missions. Telling me about his day. How embarrassing it was to get… what was that disease? Chicken pox, I think." _Tali laughed for a moment._ "You should have seen him when Shepard broke the Normandy out of lockdown. He was like a quarian who'd gotten his first tube of meat paste." _She stopped at the look on her colleague's face. _"It's like a human child in a candy store."_

"_Oh."_

"_Gotcha."_

Tali suddenly sobered up. _"And then he died. They all died. I wish I could be down there. I'd like to pay my respects. One last time."_

The next recording was from the cockpit. It seemed to be a conversation between Mr. Moreau and EDI.

"_For the umpteenth time, I'm fine," _Mr. Moreau said with a hint of irritation in his voice.

"_That was the seventh time and you are not 'fine'," _EDI replied. _"Your productivity has decreased by 17% since Shepard told you to head for the Amada system—and why we were going there—and a further 6% since Shepard took the shuttle down to the crash site."_

"_Didn't know you were checking up on me, EDI."_

"_I check up on everybody."_

"_Yeah. I know. Very Big Brother of you." _**(2)**

"_Mr. Moreau. You seem distracted."_

"_This little trip... it's just bringing up old memories, that's all."_

"_Of how you survived?"_

"_Of how I failed."_

There was a pause. _"That does not compute. Who did you fail?"_

"_The crew of the original Normandy. I should've reacted faster to the Collectors. I should've jumped to FTL. Did a better job of dodging the attack. But I didn't. And over twenty people—including Commander Shepard—died as a result."_

"_I have compiled all reports of the incident, Mr. Moreau," _EDI told him_. "Analysis of all relevant variables indicates that you could not have done anything that would make a significant difference. At best, you might have kept the Normandy intact for an additional thirty-eight seconds."_

"_Yeah? Thirty-eight seconds, huh? How many people might have lived if I kept the Normandy flying for an additional thirty-eight seconds?" _

"_There is insufficient data to form a conclusive answer, Mr. Moreau."_

Mr. Moreau snorted. _"Tell me about it. And then there's Shepard."_

"_What about him?"_

"_He had to double back to the cockpit because I wouldn't leave. He had to haul my ass to the escape pod because of me. He got knocked loose before he could get inside the pod because of me. _He died because of me, damn it!_"_

Mr. Moreau was silent for a full minute. _"I've spent the last two years living with that fact. I let Shepard down, EDI. And over twenty good men and women."_

There was another pause. Then _"Perhaps you should join him."_

"_EDI?"_

"_Shepard. Perhaps you should join him." _

"_And do what exactly?"_

"_One of Shepard's objectives is to search for any sign of the crew members who were unaccounted for. If Shepard finds any of them, you could... talk to them. Express any concerns or outstanding issues. You could also do this amongst the remains of the original Normandy itself."_

"_They're dead, EDI. I don't think that will help them."_

"_No. But perhaps it would help _you._" _

It was understandable that the people who served on the original Normandy would feel this way. It was interesting, however, to note that other people felt the same way. Members of the Lazarus Cell. The various men and women Shepard had recruited. Everyone.

Before I knew it, my hands were flying over the keyboard. Setting up timetables, coordinating shift schedules. It was the most efficient use of my time, given that I couldn't think about anything else. More to the point, it was something I could do for Shepard.

After five minutes and forty-eight seconds, I was finished. I sent out a mass e-mail to the crew:

_From: Operator Lawson_

_As you all know, Commander Shepard is currently searching through the wreckage of the Normandy SR-1 for any signs of the twenty-one men and women who lost their lives during the Collector attack two years ago, as well as choosing a suitable location for a monument to erect in their memory. I have set up a schedule for anyone else who would like to pay their respects._

The first shuttle ride would be reserved for Garrus, Tali, Dr. Chakwas and Mr. Moreau—the only crew members who had served on both Normandys. The other three rides—a maximum of twelve at a time—would be available for anyone who wasn't on duty and wanted to go down.

Within half an hour, everyone had signed up.

Even me.

* * *

"I've been talking to the crew. A lot of them felt… good, I guess, after paying their respects."

Shepard had made his usual visit around the ship after returning from Alchera. He'd arrived at my office at the usual time. I'd been dreading his visit, to be honest. I didn't know what to say. About Project Overlord. Or Cerberus.

At least he gave me an opening. "I'm glad to hear that," I said, "though I can't take credit for it. The urge to pay respects just... emerged spontaneously and grew from there."

"Well you can take credit for organizing the trips," he pointed out.

"I suppose so," I conceded. It was rather nice to feel good about something.

Shepard stopped talking after that. I used the time to file a report. And then another. And then another. All while this pressure kept building inside me. After five reports, I couldn't stay silent any longer.

"I wanted to... to apologize for my outburst earlier," I finally said.

"It's understandable," he replied. "You were upset."

"No, that's... well, yes I was, but..." This wasn't going very well at all. This seemed to be a recurring theme with Shepard. He had a knack for making things unexpectedly complicated. "I've never been upset for that particular reason."

"That particular reason being..."

"Upset at Cerberus for letting things get that far," I finally said.

"Ah."

"No, that's not entirely accurate," I frowned, suddenly realizing what I wanted to say. Another curious quality about Shepard—every once in a while, he made things remarkably clear and simple. Quite the paradox, but one I'd have to ponder at another time, lest I lose my train of thought. "I guess I had some doubts when I saw firsthand the conditions that Jack was subjected to at the Teltin facility. Even though they had gone rogue and the Illusive Man was shutting them down, it didn't sit right. But what I saw at Project Overlord? What Dr. Archer did? To his own _brother_? I've never felt so... so... disgusted. Sick. _Horrified."_

"It was certainly disturbing, to say the least," Shepard nodded.

"The Illusive Man's follow-up to my report hardly helped," I added with a frown. A couple keystrokes pulled up the relevant e-mail, one that I had received shortly after Shepard had left for Alchera:

_From: Illusive Man_

_Miranda:_

_I understand Shepard has taken Dr. Archer's brother to Grissom Academy. I'm familiar with their work; it should be a good home for him. I don't condone Dr. Archer's actions, but they did provide a breakthrough we've been sorely lacking thus far. We'll likely never find another individual with David's unique talents. Though Shepard's decision is understandable, it has set our efforts to understand the geth back several years._

_You may need to take more overt action should his shortsightedness continue to jeopardize our long-term goals._

"Gosh, I feel so bad," Shepard said sarcastically.

"Agreed," I sighed.

It was strange to see how much things had changed. Once, I might have disagreed with Shepard. Once, I would have been content to watch my sister from afar. But now everything was different. I was regularly talking with Oriana. I had come around to agree with Shepard, who was right with at least some of his concerns all along. Not that he would rub it in my face, of course.

With a start, I realized that neither of us had said anything for… some time, at least. I shook my head to clear the mental paralysis before continuing. This would be difficult to admit, so I might as well get it over with as soon as possible. "After seeing that e-mail, I started going through your official reports again. One 'rogue' incident, however upsetting, might be underst... well, it could be a horrific outlier. Two, not so much. But the same pattern kept popping up. When we let the rachni escape from Argos Rho and spread all the way to the Styx Theta cluster. When we deliberately turned the Chasca colony into husks. When we lured Alliance marines into an ambush at Akuze and performed experiments on the survivors..."

"Like you said, there's a definite pattern," Shepard agreed, exercising an admirable degree of restraint.

"But not one that I signed up for," I burst out, my frustrations suddenly spilling out one agonizing word at a time. "At least, I didn't think that was what I was signing up for. I was so sure that Cerberus would promote humanity in a more effective way than all the kowtowing of the Alliance. To improve humanity's position in galactic affairs without unnecessary compromises. To make the universe a better place without cutting through reams of red tape. I never imagined that would involve injecting marines with thresher maw venom. Or conducting cruel and barbaric experiments on children. On _siblings_. That wasn't what I signed up for. But that's what I got.

"So if I was so terribly wrong about that, what else was I wrong about? What choices did I make under false assumptions? What actions did I choose under false pretences? I don't know have the answers to those questions anymore. I don't know what to believe anymore. I don't know who I _am." _

This would be the part where Shepard would say something to make it all better.

…

Of course, I might as well dream that Santa Claus was real.

…

And that credits grew from various forms of flora.

Shepard finally began speaking. "A teacher of mine once said that not having the answers was a good thing, because it meant you had to start asking questions. Maybe you could do that."

"Ask questions?" I repeated.

"Yeah. We'll start with the basics. What's your name?"

This seemed a bit ridiculous, but, at this point, I was willing to try anything. "Miranda Lisa Lawson."

"What's your gender?"

"Female."

"What's the colour of your hair?"

Oh, this was getting ridiculous. "Seriously?"

"Okay, we'll move to something a bit more complicated. How many members are currently serving on the Normandy?"

Shepard had more simple—and simply useless—questions. I was wondering if there was a point to this exercise when he popped his next question. "What was the other reason for your joining Cerberus?"

"What?"

"Just before we went to Illium, you asked me to come see you. You gave another reason for joining Cerberus."

"To rescue my sister," I said. "To give her a chance at a normal life."

"And did she get that normal life?" he asked.

"It appears that way."

"Did she seem happy?" he insisted.

"Well, yes. Yes, she did."

He spread his hands as if to say 'There you go.' Though what he actually said was "That's a start at least."

"Is it?"

"Well, you know a little bit about yourself now. You're Miranda Lisa Lawson. You're a woman—"

Brilliant. "I'm glad to see you noticed that after several months."

"—and you're the one who passed up a chance for a normal and happy life so your sister could have it instead."

Yes. Yes I did. And it was all thanks to Shepard. Agreeing to help without a moment's hesitation. Watching my back without question. Encouraging me to actually take that last step and make contact with my sister. "Thank you, Shepard," I said. "It's good to know that at least two good things came out of my association with Cerberus."

He looked confused at that. "Two? You're counting a normal life and a happy life for your sister as two things?"

I shook her head. "No, that's one. The other one is… working with and getting to know… you."

Shepard was speechless. Quite an accomplishment. More importantly, one I could honestly say I had earned.

While he was here, there was something I wanted to know. Something that I had been, well, concerned about ever since we left Aite. "How are you doing?"

"Huh?"

"David—and the VI—appeared to, well, hack you. Or gain temporary control over your motor functions. How are you doing?"

"Mordin gave me a clean bill of health," he shrugged.

That wasn't what I meant, and he knew it. "Yes, I know you passed your physical, but how are you doing psychologically?"

"I… I don't know," he slowly admitted. "Haven't had a chance to think about it. It felt weird when the VI, well, hacked me. Weird and creepy. It was as if someone was pouring ice water into my veins and shutting down—no, that's not quite right. It was like my body was growing numb and distant, pulling away from me bit by bit. I swear I could count every implant wedged into my body, helping that… that loss of control. But the funny thing is: I don't feel weirded out at all. Shouldn't I feel weird? Or disturbed? Helpless? Violated? Because I don't."

One would certainly understand if he felt that way. But perhaps there was an explanation. "It is a bit early. Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet."

"Great," Shepard snorted. "Something else to look forward to."

"Mind you, you did resist the hacking attempt," I added, suddenly realizing another possibility. "By your account, the only lasting effect was the virtual reality overlay on your visual feeds. Maybe you don't feel helpless because you did resist and fight back. With a fair amount of success, I might add."

"I like the sound of that option," he admitted.

"Otherwise, you're feeling fine?" I persisted. "You're sure you aren't suffering any ill effects?"

"Yes, I feel fine. The VI's gone. No more tampering. No more visual tricks. Everything's back to normal." Shepard tapped a finger against my forehead. "There's nothing going on in here right now."

In the split second it took for him to realize what a perfect line he had given me, I devised 2,916 possible jokes. It was all I could do to keep them to myself. For that matter, it was all I could do to limit my facial reaction to a slight lip-twitch. "Too easy," I said.

"How, uh, how did Garrus and Jacob do with the paperwork?"

A blatantly obvious attempt to change the subject. One I was willing to allow for his sake. "Could be better," I admitted, "but there wasn't any template or SOP for them to follow. I should probably create one, come to think of it. Like you said earlier, they may have to do that sort of thing again."

"Sounds like a good idea," Shepard said. "If you want, you can give me the remaining administrative stuff to finish off so you can work on that?"

Normally I preferred to do it myself. Mostly for the peace of mind that came from knowing that it was done correctly. Still, I knew from prior experience that Shepard could be trusted to do it right. More importantly, it would allow us to spend more time together. "I'll download it to a datapad for you," I nodded. "While I'm doing that, why don't you head over to the mess hall and grab something for us?"

"Sure. How does jasmine teaand tapioca pudding sound?"

From anyone else, that would be a very peculiar combination. From Shepard?

"Perfect." **(3)**

* * *

We wound up having more of what Shepard started calling "work dates." It was as accurate a description as any, I suppose. I found myself enjoying it, and not just because I had finally found a way for Shepard to do some of the paperwork. It was just so relaxing. So comfortable. I had finally found someone with whom I could lower my guard, even if it was only by a fraction. Someone who didn't expect me to be perfect every nanosecond of every second of every minute of every hour of every day. Someone who didn't expect me to be the epitome of an ideal galaxy. Someone who didn't want me to conform my beliefs or opinions to absolutes of right or wrong, success or failure.

Shepard would just come by every other day (He tried coming every day, until I warned him that someone would definitely find out about us if he paid me four daily visits and three to everyone else. I'd had enough trouble as it was hacking into EDI's subroutines to prevent her from reporting this development Granted, I could have enlisted Shepard's assistance, but his style of hacking tended to focus more on getting results than covering his tracks—once you knew what to look for, his intrusions were painfully obvious. In any event, we eventually settled on having work dates every other day) with jasmine tea and whatever snack or pastry or dessert Gardner had made that day. When I asked him about his choice of drink, he just shrugged and said that alcohol would draw too much attention and the sheer amount of caffeine in coffee would disrupt our sleep cycles. "Besides," he said, "no one else is drinking the stuff." I decided to accept it for now as one of his little quirks, right next to his insatiable curiosity and borderline-pathological kleptomania. I could always get the whole story later.

Our work dates were different than anything else I had experienced before. We spent time together without feeling obligated to share empty social niceties or pretend interest in inconsequential rubbish. Well, I didn't feel obligated. Shepard occasional threw in the odd bit of gossip. Or scuttlebutt, as he called it—you could take the man out of the military... No drama from some theoretical dinner table. No need to stress out over what to wear when there were more important matters like whether we had enough resources to construct the latest upgrade. We just did the work and got the job done, but in a much more relaxing and pleasurable setting.

The best part was that, every once in a while, I would catch him looking at me. Not in the creepy, pervert, obsessive stalker way. Well, it was, but it was more than that. It was this expression of quiet, stunned admiration and, perhaps, adoration. He never actually said out loud that he thought I was beautiful. He just told me without saying anything, in a way that seemed more sincere and honest than anything anyone had ever said before. It was hard to imagine that no one else had snatched him up in the past.

It was even harder to believe that someone might not want to try and snatch him in the future. The only way to prepare for that was to do some research and analyze the data. Which I did. Aside from Shepard, there were thirty-three other crew members. Judging by the subtle differences in the way he looked at each gender, it seemed he was interested exclusively in women—the way he'd look at other women, the frequent looks he'd cast in my direction when he thought I wasn't looking, the incredible first kiss we'd exchanged and the subsequent increase in time spent together would seem to confirm that. The women who would pose the greatest competition were those who potentially had just as much contact with him as I did, which restricted the list to the fifteen other women serving aboard the Normandy. Most of the women were easily classified as having a 'Negligible Risk' of competing with me for Shepard's affection. Four of them required a little more consideration.

Ms. Chambers—_Kelly_—had expressed interest in Shepard from the beginning, cooing and sighing over how strong and noble and ruggedly handsome he was. Then she fretted about Garrus, who had been sporting a mandibular prosthesis and a horrific scar since his recruitment on Omega, expressing a desire to take him into her arms and tell him that he'd be all right. Then she was admiring Thane and the way he carried himself with such poise and confidence, admitting that she found him sexy in a dangerous, bad boy kind of way. A week later, she was conflicted over Samara, who she found both elegant and unyielding, gorgeous and cold. I don't think she was fickle as much as she tended to fall in and out of crushes very easily. Ultimately, she posed a 'Negligible Risk.'

Jack drew my attention for other reasons. From the beginning, she had singled me out as a threat. As the epitome of Cerberus and all it stood for. Which only went to prove that she actually had something between her ears other than tattoos. We had almost come to blows after Pragia, a conflict that had only been averted at the last minute by Shepard. If she picked up on my feelings for Shepard, about what we had started, she might start pursuing him just to spite me. As much as I hated to admit it, there were a few points in her favour. She was a biotic, just like me. Up until Pragia, she was dressed just as provocatively as I was—or undressed in a far less subtle, but equally provocative manner. And her childhood had been traumatic enough that she would appreciate someone with Shepard's patience—once she finished with her profanities and insults, of course. Still, her psych profile suggested that she couldn't conceive of anyone being that patient with her unless they wanted to have sex with her. As long as she believed that, she would never get anywhere with Shepard. If Shepard was the sort of man who was only interested in women as disposable pleasures, he would have made a move on me—and several other women—by now. Therefore, it seemed safe to classify her as a 'Negligible Risk.'

Tali could be a problem. Kelly's psych profile had suggested that Tali might be attracted to Shepard. They did know each other from two years ago when Shepard was hunting Saren, where he saved her from Saren's mercenaries. And then he gave her a copy of some data he'd recovered on the geth for her Pilgrimage gift. And then he saved her on Freedom's Progress. So there was that whole 'saving her life' factor, plus the save the galaxy factor. Besides, she always had this impressive balance of intelligence, self-confidence and assertiveness despite what scuttlebutt said was a less-than-ideal relationship with her father—which reminded me that several people on this ship seemed to have father or family issues, myself included. And I know more than one male crew member had expressed great admiration in her hips. They weren't as great as mine, but they were far too close for comfort. Thankfully, Shepard had never expressed any hint of interest or compatibility with her. Still, she could be a problem. Better classify her as a 'Moderate Risk,' I decided.

Liara wasn't physically on the Normandy, which was why I hadn't initially considered her a risk. The more I thought about it, though, the more I was concerned. She'd also known Shepard from the 'Saren days.' He had saved her on Therum. She'd been fascinated and attracted to him, first for the data in his head from the Prothean beacon and the Cipher, then because, well, because he was Shepard. And she had melded with Shepard on at least three separate occasions, which meant she had greater insight into Shepard than anyone else. More importantly, she'd gone off on a quest to track down Shepard's body, displaying an unnerving degree of focus that bordered on obsession in the process, only to shift to a quest to hunt down and kill the Shadow Broker. Besides, she was an asari, which meant she was universally attractive to every species out there, including humanity, and her biotics were at least equal to mine, if not greater. Definitely a 'High Risk' threat.

Kasumi was also a concern, albeit for entirely different reasons. Out of all the threats and competitors I had considered, she had 'clicked' with Shepard almost immediately. Not surprisingly, when I thought about it: they did have the most in common. Both of them were intelligent. Both of them had a penchant for sneaking around. Thanks to the modifications I gave to Shepard, both of them could had a cloaking system that rendered themselves invisible. Perfect for stealing things, which they both indulged in on more than one occasion. And both of them had this irritatingly mischievous sense of humour. When Shepard pulled his little ship-wide April Fool's Day prank, Kasumi was the only one who spent the rest of the day giggling away. Even when she was wincing at the end for over-exerting her stomach muscles, she still had that silent laughter gleaming in her eyes—something else she and Shepard shared. That level of compatibility could pose a serious problem. So yes, she was clearly a 'High Risk.' **(4)**

"Woohoo! I'm a 'High Risk!'"

My hand automatically sent a wave of biotic energy rippling outwards in the direction of the voice before my brain had even registered. An "Oof" rang out, followed by a thud and an "Owwwwwwwww."

Saving my Romantic Competition and Threat Assessment file, I got up, walked over to the window—the one located in what Shepard called the 'Office Half' of my quarters—and glared. A second later, Kasumi disabled the cloak, which saved me from looking foolish and potentially deranged for glaring at the empty carpet. "Hi, Miranda," Kasumi chirped, completely unfazed by the glare I was leveling at her. "What's up?"

Somehow, I had the feeling that she intentionally gave away her presence. Either that, or she simply didn't care about getting caught. "How long have you been here?" I demanded.

"Long enough to know Liara and I are tied at the top, Tali's next, followed by Jack and Kelly, and that everyone else is pretty much off the list. Don't worry, I won't tell."

I dimly heard her reply, too busy dealing with the gut-clenching grip of sheer panic. Thankfully, my memory managed to recover what she said. "Wh-what?" I managed at last.

"You and Shep," Kasumi elaborated, getting to her feet. "I won't tell anyone. The two of you obviously want to keep things hush-hush, which I totally support. It's _sooooo _romantic!"

The vice grip on my gut loosened ever-so-slightly. Kasumi looked serious. She seemed fully invested in this... whatever it was that Shepard and I had. Unless she was playing me. Hoping to get my guard down so she could pounce and take Shepard from me. I hated that possibility. Almost as much as I hated being the needy, clingy, jealous woman. "How did you know?"

"Took me a while, but I eventually figured out that Shep and I are the only ones who go for the jasmine tea," Kasumi shrugged. "Then it started disappearing. _Fast._"

So much for "'No one else is drinking the stuff.'"

"Way I figured, either Shep started mainlining it through an IV, a third person started sneaking it away or Shep was getting extra rations for someone else. Didn't take long to figure out the answer was choice number three. Besides, you and Shep keep making googly eyes at each other."

Damn. "We do?" I asked bleakly.

"Yep," Kasumi nodded. "Not on the Normandy; you guys are very careful about that," she hastened to add, no doubt seeing the look of horror in my eyes. "Probably the only reason that Kelly didn't pick up on it. Though you do smile a lot more when you're in here. Did you know that?"

"Uh... no?"

"You should do that more often," Kasumi said firmly. "Smile, I mean. Shep would love that, I bet. Anyway, you guys are usually pretty discreet onboard the Normandy. But on missions? Yeah, the two of you do stare at each other in that special lovey-dovey kinda way."

"And you're not..."

"Jealous?" Kasumi finished. "Nah. I mean, don't get me wrong: I'm flattered that you ranked me so highly. Almost as flattering as knowing I'm the best thief in the galaxy. But seriously: Shep and I? We have _way _too much in common. Think about it: if we started dating, things would only be calm for a few days. Maybe a week. Then we'd start stealing from each other. Cracking bad jokes that just irritate each other. Making up plans to prank each other. And everyone else on the crew would get caught in the middle. I say two weeks, three tops, before we drive each other bonkers. That, or we just kill each other."

That made me feel a little better.

"Though I bet the sex would be fantastic."

That—not so much.

* * *

I later told Shepard about Kasumi's visit, leaving out the part about my list. My caution may have been unnecessary, as he was more interested in Kasumi's theories on what might happen if the two of them got together. Naturally, he thought the idea of a prank war was hilarious.

Once he stopped laughing, he confirmed that Kasumi probably didn't have any interest in me, citing a conversation where she let slip her attraction to Jacob. I started to tell him I couldn't see how the two would work out; what with Jacob being so serious and focused while Kasumi was so mischievous and cheery. Then I stopped, too late seeing the irony in my words. Naturally, Shepard filled in the rest. Naturally, it set him off again. **(5) **

In any event, things went on as normal, or as normal as it could be. More and more of Shepard's squad put their past behind them or resolved old personal demons. Upgrades were being installed. Shepard and I continued our clandestine work dates. Missions were being completed—with Shepard and I trying to keep any non-verbal cues that might hint at our relationship to a minimum.

Then the Collectors abducted the crew.

The Reaper IFF had finally been integrated. The crew were running some final tests while Shepard and the squad went off to answer a distress call. Little did we know that the Reaper IFF was harbouring some incredibly sophisticated viruses, which shut down the Normandy's navigational systems and broadcast a homing signal that led the Collector cruiser right to them. The only reason we had a ship to go back to was that Mr. Moreau unshackled EDI and plugged her directly into the ship's systems, thereby giving her the control she needed to detach from the Collector ship, jettison any wayward Collectors into the vacuum of space and jump to FTL.

Shepard decided that we had to go after them and retrieve the crew. Personal connections and loyalty to the crew aside, he was right. After nearly a year of constant combat and peril, the squad was as cohesive and battle-hardened as it could possibly get. And, thanks to Shepard's devotion to the fine art of shopping, scrounging and strip-mining, we had the best weapons, omni-tools, biotic amps and ship upgrades credits could buy.

Thanks to Mr. Moreau's unorthodox tactics, EDI had taken over all of the ship's functions. That meant the vast majority of the normal tasks and reports were completed correctly and on time. All I had to do was sign off on them, which left me time to make one last plan:

After the initial hurdles, Shepard and I had established a new rhythm. One full of work dates, off-hand jokes, little smiles and... spending time together. I was happy with that. Call it denial, but that helped put off the stress of knowing we were on a suicide mission. Believe me, I ran the numbers. The odds had improved with every squad member Shepard recruited, every mission we came back from, even every random upgrade Shepard found, but the odds were still against us.

But now... now we didn't really have a choice. We had to get the crew—_our _crew—back. Even though I hadn't interacted with them as much as Shepard had, even though I hadn't gotten to know them as well, they were still our crew. We'd breathed the same air, eaten the same food, survived the same missions—vicariously or literally. They were our crew. We had to get them back, or at least try. Even if it was a suicide mission. One that we probably wouldn't come back from. Not Shepard. Not me. None of us.

Which meant this was the last chance I'd get to find out what it would be like to have sex with Shepard. To see if it would be another bit of physical release or something… more.

And if it was going to be my first and, more importantly, my last chance to screw his brains out, I might as well go the extra mile to make it something unique. Something extraordinary. Like me. Like Shepard.

Having settled on an objective, I did what I always did: generate multiple plans and select the best option. That option being combining the thrill of our first time together with the thrill of potentially being our last and only time together with the thrill of doing it in a spot where anyone could walk in on us at any time. Then I had to optimize this plan so it so it would have the greatest probability of success.

Part of that optimization required the recruitment of a partner for technical and logistical assistance. While this plan involved a bit more exhibitionism than I usually indulged in, this was all theoretical—I intended to do everything in my power to prevent anyone walking in on me and Shepard, or any vid-recordings being made. The former could be handled by manipulating the itineraries of the remaining crew/squad members. The latter would have to be via some judicious hacking, since Mr. Moreau's desperate act of saving the Normandy had resulted in an unshackled AI who no longer had to respond to Cerberus override codes. However, there was always the possibility that some random variable or variables would undermine my preparations. It would help if I had some assistance who could 'run interference.' As an added bonus, it would mean that I could concentrate entirely on pleasuring Shepard—and myself—rather than my usual mental multi-tasking.

Knowing that there was at least one person on the Normandy who knew about Shepard and I and would likely be willing to help made it much simpler.

I sent a coded signal to Kasumi asking for her to meet me. As I waited for her to arrive, I made a few additional modifications while marvelling at how much easier it was for me to ask for help without fear of looking like a failure. Especially when you know the help is competent.

"Hi, there!"

Kasumi decloaked. I looked at her, then looked at the doors that had not opened once.

"I have my ways," she shrugged.

"Then perhaps you can use those ways to help me out," I replied. I quickly outlined my plan.

"Oh, Miranda," Kasumi tsk-ed. "The engine room? Really?"

"What?" I asked in confusion. "You don't think this is romantic?"

"Oh, it is. And it's kinky, too. But... _the engine room_? Right there where _Tali_ works? Isn't that kind of… tacky?"

Ah. That was her problem. Perhaps she had a point. Maybe choosing that particular site, the heart of a romantic competitor's workplace, to have my wicked, wicked way with Shepard would be kind of rubbing said competitor's face in the fact that Shepard was _mine_.

For that matter, why did I pick Tali's workplace instead of Kasumi's quarters, given that I'd pegged Kasumi as a higher threat? Was it because I'd calculated that Kasumi would be far less willing to help me if I'd decided to screw Shepard's brains out in her quarters? Or because I held Kasumi in higher regard than Tali?

Oh dear.

Now I felt… surprisingly ashamed. And disappointed in myself. "I think the word you're looking for is 'petty'," I swallowed. "Or 'low'."

"They work too," Kasumi nodded diplomatically.

"Perhaps a change in venue would be in order."

"Perhaps."

Now that I thought about it, the engine room wasn't the best place for what I had in mind for Shepard. Especially if we did it in front of the power core. The one that was two stories tall, with windows into various rooms on Decks Three _and _Four. That was a lot of potential viewpoints to cover. Perhaps I could pick somewhere else. There was always the galaxy map—no. That would be too cruel to Jacob. Besides, Mr. Moreau would be able to hear, watch and—knowing him—record. The mess hall? Too many access points. The cargo hold?

Yes. The cargo hold. Down on Deck Five, where no one went unless there was a mission. One access point, through a door that could easily be sealed. One other vantage point—the windows on Deck Four—which could easily be polarized. Yes, that could work.

"Something tells me you have a new idea."

Belatedly, I realized that I was smiling. "Yes, I do," I confirmed. "And I could use some help."

"Sounds like fun," Kasumi grinned. "I'm in."

I raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?"

"Sure," Kasumi shrugged.

"Just like that?"

"Yep."

"For free?"

"Why not?"

"Ah," I said. "Then I guess you don't want the dossier I compiled on Jacob before I recruited him. The one with a detailed personal history, unredacted CV, and an extensive image gallery."

Kasumi had a glazed look on her face for a good minute. "Er…" she said at last. "You know what? If you're good at something, never do it for free. I'll help you out—if you hand over that dossier."

I thought so. "Deal," I agreed. I kept mum on the vids I had of Jacob's Alliance days, the ones where he moonlighted as a model for underwear and deodorant commercials.

You never know when you need some incentive, after all.

* * *

There was only one major change to my revised plan: at Kasumi's suggestion, I actually asked EDI to shut off the surveillance devices on Deck Five—and certain parts of Deck Four. She agreed, citing that she was no longer bound by Cerberus regulations to keep them on at all times.

Maybe there were some benefits to unshackling her. Of course, she could be trying to lull us into a false sense of security so she could kill us all in our sleep. I put that thought aside, however. The situation was bleak enough as it was.

The rest of my plan went off without a hitch: first, Kasumi helped me sweep the cargo hold for any surveillance devices the schematics and my memory had missed and found a nice quiet spot to keep tabs on everyone else. **(6)** Next, the remaining crew—or skeleton crew, I should say—was redirected elsewhere. Then I proceeded to the next part of the plan: finding Shepard and offering him a proposition. Between EDI and Kasumi, it was child's play to intercept him.

"Oh, pardon me, Commander," I said in mock surprise.

Shepard jerked his head up. He looked at me in confusion before trying to step around me. I moved to block his advance before unleashing the sultry, smouldering look that I had practised and employed so many times. His eyes widened, ever so slightly.

Two steps were all it took to close the gap. Two long, slow steps. Carefully calculated and executed to capture every iota of his attention. Judging by the way he suddenly swallowed, I think I succeeded. I raised one hand and slowly, ever so slowly, traced a line up his chest. It wouldn't be long before the gloves were off. And the clothes.

I gradually leaned towards him, pressing my body against his and...

...

...

...and it was all I could do to stick to the plan and deliver the offer, rather than having my wicked way with him right there in the elevator. _Focus, Miranda,_ I scolded myself_. Just hold on for a little longer_… "I've cleared the cargo hold," I whispered into his ear, my voice filled with all sorts of delightful promises. "I'll be there in five minutes."

His eyes bulged, suddenly shifting out of focus. His jaw dropped. Something closely resembling a squeak came out. This phase had definitely succeeded. Hopefully I hadn't completely broken him and we could move on to the next phase.

Eventually, he pasted a grin on his face. "Should've known you wouldn't settle for the captain's quarters."

Not broken after all. Excellent. I gave him a wicked little smile, one that caused his eyes to pop out and his jaw to drop. Again. "Shepard," I purred, "I thought you would have figured it out by now: I settle for nothing but the best."

Having delivered my offer, there were only three things left to do. The first was to walk back into the elevator, taking care to put that extra swing in my step to draw his attention to my Mark IV suit and how it complemented my physique. The second step was to reach back and hit the elevator door controls.

And the last step? The last step was to stop, turn so my profile was displayed to Shepard for maximum effect… and give him a wink. Just before the elevator doors closed.

I had never done anything like that and enjoyed it so much. The way he kept looking so stunned and glassy-eyed, the way his jaw kept dropping, it was just priceless. So worth it. And the sex…

…oh, the _sex_…

Granted, Shepard might not have been the most handsome specimen I've ever slept with. Or the strongest. And he might not have been the most, shall we say, endowed. But he certainly had the most stamina—thanks in some small part to all the implants and modifications that both of us made to his body. He was a remarkably quick study—how he found that one part that drove me absolutely wild when no one else had still amazes me. And he was one of the few people who actually seemed to care about how _I_ felt. Very few people had ever done that before.

More importantly, he made me feel _safe._ Like I could lower my defences, let him in and trust that he wouldn't take advantage of my vulnerability in any way. I could give myself to him without worrying that I was being weak or foolish. For a few precious hours, I could just succumb to his embrace, let go and ignore the harsh, terrifying reality that awaited us at the Omega 4 relay and beyond.

No more hiding. No more pretending. No more walls.

Oh God. No more walls. No more protection against…

…oh no.

What if things went wrong. What if something happened? What if we were separated or hurt or… or…

"Miranda?"

Oh God.

I tried to keep my panic contained. To keep myself from welling up in tears. To stop shaking in fear or silently sob at what might happen. "Miranda?" I heard Shepard say again.

"I'm happy," I confessed.

"I'm sorry?"

"This is what I was afraid of," I admitted.

"I'm confused."

Understandable. He didn't understand what this could mean. How all of this could disappear in a heartbeat and hurt so badly because it meant so much.

"I didn't want to be happy," I started. "Because being happy meant being open to other things like loss and sorrow and heartbreak which is exactly what's going to happen on this mission." I lifted my head from his chest and looked at him, not even trying to stop the tears. "It's a suicide mission which, by definition, means people are going to die. We could all die. Or worse, one of us will die and the other will live, all alone and lonely and miserable and I didn't want this. But now I have it. I'm happy. I'm happier than I've ever been, which means I could be miserable if things go horribly wrong and you die. I don't want to be miserable. I don't want you to die!

"So promise me, damn it!" I sobbed, squeezing him tightly. "Promise me that you—"

"Miranda," he interrupted. "Miranda, look at me. Look at me."

Oh good. This was the part where he'd say something that would make it all better—oh God. 'Make it all better. What was I, twelve? Still, maybe he'd have some quip or comment that would be utterly simple yet incredibly profound.

"Don't freak out, okay?"

Then again, maybe it would just be utterly simple. "Don't freak out?" I repeated.

"Yeah. You think you're the only one who's worried? You're not. I wish I wasn't. I wish I could pretend this mission will be a snap. But it doesn't work that way. We could all be dead in the next few hours."

That was what I was afraid of.

"Or maybe we'll all make it. Somehow."

That was more like it.

"Look, I don't know what will happen next. But I'll tell you this much: I don't regret any of this. What happened between us, all the times we shared drinking tea and eating snacks while filling out reports, all the things we confided in each other, all that we just shared here in the cargo bay. I couldn't have imagined that any of this could happen, but I'm glad I did because I wanted this. All of this. Not just to vent some steam or score some bragging rights. I wanted this because, well, because it was with you. I'm going to do everything I can to get through this mission, come out the other side alive and intact, and see where this thing we have goes. Even if it's scarier than the prospect of going up against the Collectors. But if you don't think it's worth it, I und—"

I couldn't stop myself from kissing him out of gratitude. And other things. I'd spent what seemed like an eternity agonizing over and thinking about what I was feeling. Thinking about what it all meant. Thinking about what could happen now that I was exposed—literally—and vulnerable.

What I realized, in that instant, was that I was tired of thinking. Calculating. Analyzing. Extrapolating. I just wanted to act without restraint or forethought. I wanted to move with wild abandon. I wanted to _feel_.

And oh how I felt. Felt the heat of his body. Felt the hot warmth of his lips. Felt everything.

It was wonderful.

After what seemed like an eternity, Shepard pulled away. I whimpered in protest as our lips parted, but I was also grateful. It was only then that I realized I hadn't taken a breath, and even my genetically enhanced body needed oxygen after a while. As I gulped down air, my mind started to settle, and I remembered the last thing Shepard was saying before I kissed him.

The answer was surprisingly simple. And profound. "No," I said softly. "It is."

"Okay," he said. "Then I just need you to do one thing."

"Which is?" I prompted.

"Trust me," he replied. "Trust that I'll do everything in my power to complete this mission and return to you."

"Okay," I promised. And I'll do the same."

"Good."

"Good."

We stopped talking then, letting the ramifications of that conversation sink in. I waited a few minutes before I decided that we had done enough talking. Time to act. I propped myself up on an elbow and turned towards him. "Well, Shepard," I said, letting a seductive smile spreading ever so slowly across my face, "I think we need more data."

He looked at me blankly. "More... data?"

I curled my body against him, tilting my head up so I could whisper in his ear. "That was the best sex I have had in a very, very, _very _long time," she told him. "Especially the last round. But I need to know they weren't random outliers. I think I need further... experimentation to broaden my data set."

He blinked a few times before a wicked look transformed his face. "Let me get this straight: you want to have more sex? For science?"

"Precisely," I confirmed. "For science."

Shepard glanced around before returning his gaze to me. "Against the nearest wall or on top of the Hammerhead?" he wanted to know.

"Wall," I said firmly. "It's twelve point three six metres closer."

* * *

We did get around to gather additional data on top of the Hammerhead. Eventually. After doing it against the wall. And another wall. And a few other locations. For science. And while it was amazing and euphoric and oh-so-worth it, I couldn't help but feel content. Safe, even.

The only other time I'd felt that way...

...oh my.

The only other time was in my own bed. As a child—chronologically, that is—my bed was my one and only refuge from the harsh, cruel dictates of my father. The one place where I could relax and feel safe. Even as an adult, I never slept with anyone in _my _bed. That was _my _sanctum. My sanctuary.

Was that why I chose to explore my heretofore dormant exhibitionist streak? Because as much as I cared about Shepard, as much as I trusted him, I couldn't let him into my bed? I couldn't let him in all the way? I couldn't tell him I loved him? **(7) **

Oh.

Um.

Wow.

As much as I wanted to explore this revelation, I didn't have the time. There were a few last-minute diagnostics to run and some files to backup before we hit the Omega 4 relay. All I could do was make a promise to myself: to survive this mission, to ensure Shepard survive this mission and do everything in my power to give us a chance to figure out what our next step was.

Together.

* * *

_(1): Given all she sacrificed, it wasn't surprising that Miranda would react to the true nature of Project Overlord this way. That didn't make it any less painful to read._

_(2): Originally the dictator in George Orwell's novel '1984,' it has since become a synonym for abuse of government power and oppressive control over civil liberties, often involving intrusion of privacy or mass surveillance. _

_(3): This was their first fight, which could very well have had an uglier outcome. The fact that it didn't is a testament to the character of both individuals. _

_(4): Only Miranda would react in such a systematic way to the possibility of someone competing with her for Shepard's affection. _

_(5): I can't imagine why._

_(6): Readers will remember that Ms. Goto paid at least a little attention to Shepard and Miranda as well._

_(7): In fact, it would take a little more time before either of them admitted their feelings—or used the word 'love'—out loud._


	7. Miranda Versus the Next Step

**Miranda Versus the Next Step**

Shepard had done it.

He had led us through the Omega 4 relay, fought his way into the Collector base, rescued the entire crew, blew the base to smithereens and escaped—all without losing a single squad or crew member.

Shepard also defied a direct order from the Illusive Man to preserve the Collector base and all its technology to fight the Reapers and ensure human dominance throughout the galaxy. When pressed, he said he wouldn't let fear—of the Reapers, of an uncertain future, of anything—compromise who he was and what humanity truly stood for. Later on, after we'd returned to the Sahrabarik system, he'd talked to the Illusive Man—after putting him off for two hours, thirty-nine minutes and eighteen seconds—and all but told him he was leaving Cerberus. **(1)**

To be honest, I wasn't too torn up about it. I'd become more than a little disillusioned by the tactics Cerberus was willing to employ and the people they were willing to betray or sacrifice in their attempts to gain some small advantage. I say 'attempt' because more than one project had failed spectacularly. All because they'd taken one too many shortcuts or turned a blind eye once too often.

I'd also bore witness to a new way of doing things.

So no, I wasn't sad about defying the Illusive Man or leaving Cerberus. In fact, I found the whole idea quite... well, quite thrilling. That might have played some small part in delaying Shepard before he held his last conversation with the Illusive Man as someone working _with_, not for, Cerberus. That, and the fact that I needed to work off some stress after surviving a suicide mission intact. And I was curious to see whether sex with Shepard would be just as great following a suicide mission—it was, by the way. Though we never actually made it to my bed.

After having lots and lots of sex, and after Shepard finished his conversation with the Illusive Man, we went down to join the rest of the squad—and Mr. Moreau—in the cargo hold. It was quite a mess after the Oculus drone tore through it and no one had gotten around to cleaning up. We could have gotten some other crew members to pitch a hand, but Shepard felt that, after the traumatic ordeal they'd been through, going back to a normal routine would be just what the proverbial doctor ordered. Moving crates, picking up debris and side-stepping giant gashes in the hull blocked only by kinetic barriers was definitely not part of anyone's definition of a normal routine. It wasn't normal for the squad either, but at least we hadn't been locked up in pods, helplessly watching while civilians got liquefied before their very eyes. **(2)**

By the time we got down, most of the work was done. The only thing left was repairing the large wounds in the Normandy's hull. So Shepard decided to celebrate with some Serrice Ice brandy for most of the squad and some turian brandy for Garrus and Tali. A little sweet for my liking—the Serrice Ice brandy that is. Turian brandy would either give me indigestion or send me into anaphylactic shock—but Shepard had good taste. The bottle he opened was from 2012. A good year.

I looked around to complement him on his choice. Ask whether he had any knowledge of such beverages—formal or otherwise—or whether it was merely a fortuitous accident. But I couldn't find him.

"He left."

I turned towards Garrus. "Shepard," he elaborated. "A few minutes ago, actually."

"What made you think I was looking for him?"

"Call it a hunch," he shrugged. "Based on all the times you two glanced at each other on the battlefield, and how that frequency increased over time."

Somehow, I had the presence of mind to keep a firm grip on my glass. "Kasumi said the same thing," I said numbly.

"Who do you think pointed it out to her?"

To borrow an oft-used aphorism, it was clear that you could take the turian out of C-Sec, but you can't take C-Sec out of the turian. "So you knew."

"Yes."

"All this time."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you stop me? Or warn Shepard? Or something?"

"I didn't have enough proof that you were a threat," Garrus replied.

Comforting. I started to turn away.

"And maybe I was hoping that my instincts weren't completely shot after the way I... mishandled Sidonis."

I turned back.

"Look around us," Garrus said, gesturing to the squad. "Look at every man and woman on this ship. Look back at everyone Shepard's met. He's helped so many of us. Listened to our problems. Offered a shoulder to cry on, as you humans say. Volunteered his services, often without asking for payment. He's made so many people happy.

"Did anyone ever return the favour?"

...

...

...

That question had never occurred to me. **(3)** "No," I admitted at last. "I suppose not."

"Except you," Garrus said. "Every time he looked at you, he seemed to... relax. Just enough that he could maintain his balance. At first, I was worried that he might be getting distracted. That you were using your charms to influence him."

I raised an eyebrow. "What made you think otherwise?"

"The fact that you reacted the same way."

Oh.

Um.

Wow.

And damn it: how could I have been that obvious? How—you know what? Never mind. I could care less. There were more important questions. "Do you know where he might be?"

"Someplace where he could be alone and guarantee that he wouldn't be disturbed," Garrus replied.

A little too quickly, I realized. My eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?" I demanded.

He was silent for a moment. "Because it's what I would do if I failed," he said at last.

"'Failed'?" I repeated blankly. "We succeeded. Beyond all reasonable expectation. We stopped the Collectors. We saved the entire crew. We got out without losing _anyone_."

"Anyone from the Normandy," Garrus corrected. "We weren't in time to rescue any of the colonists that had been abducted. That must be weighing on him."

"Yes, but..." I stopped, recalling my earlier conversation with Shepard. Before the post-mission sex and Shepard flipping the bird to the Illusive Man. He'd expressed similar sentiments, which was completely different from his usual optimism. "You know what he's going through," I said softly.

"On Omega, back when I was 'Archangel'," Garrus confirmed. "My... my _squad _had a lot of successes. More than a few, given the way the Blue Suns, Eclipse and the Blood Pack joined forces to stop us. But... every time we ambushed a bunch of slavers and stopped a shipment, all I could think of was all the shipments we _didn't _stop. Every time we got a batch of weapons off the streets, all that crossed my mind was how it didn't seem to make a dent in all the assault rifles and shotguns making their way into the hands of stupid, desperate kids. Every time we blew up a lab producing red sand or Hallex or some other drug, I just kept picturing all the addicts that sold their possessions, their friends, their bodies... all for the next damn fix."

He still thought that way, judging by the bitterness in his voice. "You know you did all you could," I offered. "More than anyone could have expected. It might not have solved every problem on Omega, but you couldn't have been everywhere."

Garrus was silent for a moment. "I wish I could believe you," he smiled sadly. **(4)**

"Me too."

"Somehow, I think you'll have better luck with Shepard."

"I hope so," I nodded. "Thanks for the tip." I took a step towards the door.

"Miranda."

I halted and turned back again. "Yes?"

"Thanks for trying."

"Anytime."

A thought occurred to me, bringing me to a stop for a third time. "Garrus?"

"Yes?"

"I think you should refill Tali's glass."

Garrus cocked his head curiously. "Because..."

"It's the polite thing to do. And it's rude to hog all the brandy."

"Good point. Thanks." Garrus reached for the turian brandy, then paused. "Ah. I see. _Thank you_."

"You're welcome." **(5)**

* * *

Garrus was right, as it turned out. Shepard had gone off to be alone. To find a fortress of solitude, I suppose. And there was only one place on the Normandy where he might find that: Deck One.

As I got out of the elevator, it suddenly occurred to me that I had never been here. Oh, I had reviewed all the schematics. Made a few suggestions—when you grow up wining and dining amongst the rich and famous, you tend to develop an appreciation for the finer aspects of interior decorating. Watched through the lone surviving surveillance device in Shepard's quarters—when he didn't reroute the signal somewhere else. But I'd never been here.

Neither had anyone else. We'd all accepted that Shepard would go around to each and every one of us and ask about our day. But we'd never once thought to reciprocate. Even if visiting the commanding officer's quarters was just not done, we could have at least asked how _he _was doing. But we hadn't. Not once.

It was time to rectify that oversight.

With that in mind, I walked up to the door. Surprisingly, it wasn't locked. I guess the possibility of one of us visiting him was just as unheard of. Choosing not to look the gift horse in the mouth, I activated the door controls and entered Shepard's quarters as soon as they opened.

The first thing I saw—no, the first thing I _heard _was music. Shepard had played a wide range of music in the past, the only commonality being that they were all at least a century old. But he'd never played any jazz music before. Until now. My ears caught a mix of guitar, bass, piano and drums—all blending together in a marvelous auditory synergy. **(6)**

As for the first thing I saw, that would be the display case. That actually wasn't one of my ideas. Why a grown man would collect model ships was beyond me. However, I didn't see any other reason why it shouldn't be included when it was proposed. I had other things on my mind at the time, such as how to correct the hormonal imbalances in Shepard's body. As it turned out, the originator of that idea was onto something—Shepard had filled every available space on every rack with ships. The Normandy, the _original _Normandy, a quarian Flotilla vessel, the Destiny Ascension and several other vessels. He even had a scaled-down version of the Kodiak shuttle. Shepard had exhaustively combed every kiosk for every ship, with the same intensity he used to find upgrades or thermal clips or wall safes. I guess it was something he could look at while doing work at his desk.

If you could call it that. Hard to imagine how anyone could get any work done with all the datapads strewn across the desk. Part of me wanted to clean them up, as the mess could have been caused by all the rocking and tossing the Normandy had endured in the last twenty hours. Part of me resisted, as there might be some kind of system—a bizarre, chaotic and messy system, but a system nonetheless.

Something caught my eye as I was resisting the urge to straighten up his desk. There were a few... knick-knacks, I suppose you could call them, on either side of his computer. One of them was a green statue of some kind of humanoid. The other was a wooden carving of some kind of bird. Not exactly realistic, what with the markings...

That was when I identified them. The green—possibly jade—statue was Sun Wukong, more commonly known as the Monkey King, a character from Chinese literature. The wooden carving was indeed a bird—specifically, the Raven from First Nations/Native people of North America. At first glance, it might seem odd to have items from two very different cultures, particularly as Shepard had never displayed any interest in any form of anthropology. However, a closer look at the stories associated with these characters revealed certain commonalities.

Sun Wukong first ignored the tenets of tradition by studying magic, despite the fact that, up to that point, only humans had studied the arcane arts. He'd caused irrevocable changes in the underwater kingdoms by appropriating a magical staff, which had previously been used to control the ebb and flow of the tides, for his own use. He'd thwarted the efforts of Hell to collect his soul and force a reincarnation by erasing his name—and the names of all the monkeys he knew—from the Book of Life and Death. All of that chaos paled in comparison to an epic campaign in which he crashed a banquet of the gods, released their horses from the celestial stable, started a rebellion and single-handedly defeated 100 000 warriors before finally being defeated by the Buddha. But perhaps the Monkey King is best known for using all his wiles, wits and magical talents to protect a pilgrim on his journey to India to retrieve the Buddhist sutras, thus transforming the religious and cultural mosaic of the world.

The Raven was responsible for stealing the sun, moon and stars from a greedy being—whose identity ranged from a greedy Gray Eagle to a powerful chieftain, depending on which story you heard—thus bringing light to the world of man. He freed the first men from a clam and the first women from a chiton and watched over them ever since—or he discovered them roaming around on his own and felt pity for them. He brought fire to mankind by stealing it from the Grey Eagle, the Snowy Owl or some other greedy individual. He forced the Man Who Sits on the Tides to get up twice a day, thus creating the cycles of high and low tides—and giving mankind access to seafood that would otherwise be inaccessible. He did all of this because he liked to upset things—and because he wanted to help mankind.

Both of these beings were considered tricksters and mischief-makers. Both of them had fundamentally changed the status quo, upsetting many of the established powers in the process. Both of them had worked and strived to help other people who needed assistance. I wasn't sure when Shepard had bought them, or whether he'd just picked them up in the midst of his constant thievery, but I found their presence rather fitting.

Looking around, I saw other things as well. A case holding replicas of all the medals and awards Shepard had earned during his years—though I almost missed that. It was tucked away in the corner, half-buried under a small mound of datapads. A small stack of books on a bookshelf behind his desk—which was rather surprising. During one of our conversations, Kasumi said Shepard had teased her for _her_ stacks of books, the ones made centuries ago with paper pages and ink printing—next to a cage holding a miniature space hamster that Shepard had bought at the Citadel.

Enough distractions, I decided. I came here to find Shepard, not tour his room. Turning around, I palmed the door control to Shepard's bathroom. No, he wasn't there either. Where _was _he?

"Down here."

Following the voice, I stepped down into the lower level of Shepard's quarters, passing the large aquarium along the wall. _That _was one of my ideas, actually. I didn't know whether Shepard would actually buy any fish. For that matter, I wasn't sure if Shepard would actually remember to feed them. As it turned out, he did the former but had problems with the latter. At least, until the fish died. After that, and all the time and credits it took to find and buy replacements, his feeding schedules became extremely consistent.

Turning around, I saw why I couldn't see Shepard earlier: he was slouching on the sofa beneath the display case. His legs were propped up on the coffee table, the one holding the spherical artifact he recovered from a Prothean dig site on Kopis. I had to repress a shudder when I saw it, and not just because we had to kill a lot of Blue Sun mercenaries to get to it. Or the fact that one of the Cerberus scientists studying it was willing to sell it to the Collectors if they spared the colony where his wife lived. No, my unease was due to the fact that the relic was originally a lot larger. And by larger, I mean it had a diameter of roughly 7.62 metres. **(7)** When Shepard had touched it—because he just _had_ to touch it—a ripple ran across its surface. Then, in a burst of green energy that rippled throughout the dig site—and beyond, as the Normandy's sensors recorded a massive data burst at the same time—the relic shrank to the size of a basketball. Naturally, Shepard insisted on taking it back with him. I spent the next few nights having nightmares of that relic abruptly returning to its original size and punching a hole through the hull.

Carefully stepping around the coffee table and the Prothean relic—I swear the thing glowed and briefly increased by 0.2 millimetres in diameter as I passed—I sat down beside Shepard. "Hey," I said, not knowing what else to say.

"Hey."

...

...

"You left early."

"I did."

...

...

"Felt like being alone?"

"Yeah."

...

...

Well, this was going well. "Still want to be alone?"

"Yeah."

Oh.

Um.

That hurt. More than it should have. "Well... okay," I said slowly, trying to keep the quavering out of my voice. "I-if you really, that is—I should go. Yeah, really—"

"Wait."

I froze halfway to a standing position. "Shepard?"

"Stay."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Keeping the thought that he might be trying to talk to me like a dog, I sat back down. We sat there for another few minutes in silence. Maybe that was what he needed: someone who was willing to sit next to him and silently offer her support, without actually saying anything.

My resolve to test that particular hypothesis lasted three minutes and forty-eight seconds. At three minutes and forty-nine seconds, I decided that while this might be what he wanted, it wasn't what he _needed._ Time to try a different tack. "Why are you so ashamed of your medals?"

Shepard opened his eyes for the first time since I entered his quarters and stared at me in confusion. "What?"

"The medals and awards you received during your time in the Alliance," I elaborated. "Five Medals of Military Valour. Three Stars of Military Valour. The Cross of Military Valour. The Elysium Medal."

I noticed Shepard started to twitch. Clearly I was getting through to him. "The Combat Action Ribbon," I continued. "The Alliance Naval Expeditionary Medal. Two Terran Medals of Honour."

By this point, Shepard's hands had tightened into fists. "The N7 Achievement Medal. The Alliance Commendation Medal. The Star of Terra. The—"

"ALL RIGHT, ALREADY! I KNOW I'M A GODDAMNED HERO! I'VE ONLY BEEN TOLD A GAZILLION TIMES!"

A little more vehement than I expected—I'd never heard him raise his voice like that before—but at least I'd cracked his wall of silence. In addition, the way he'd jumped on the title of hero confirmed one of my theories on why the case of medals was so carelessly buried in the corner. "Why is it a big deal that you're called a hero?" I asked softly.

"Because of what it means," Shepard said bitterly—something else that was understandable, yet disturbingly new. "Every time I'm called a hero, it's just because I got stuck in something that smarter people would've seen and avoided. Every time some REMF pats me on the back and calls me a hero, they're just celebrating the fact that I had the dumb luck to survive, ignoring plenty of other people who deserved that praise more than I did. Every time some reporter or politician calls me a hero, it's just because no one could care to acknowledge the son, daughter, brother, sister, mother or father who never got to come home. Every time a parade was held in my honour, building was named after me or that godawful statue was raised, it just avoided the real issues in favour of something more sexy. It just... it doesn't mean anything anymore. Nothing that really matters." **(8)**

For the first time in, well, the first time that I could remember, I felt sorry for him. Sorry for someone other than myself, come to think of it. I racked my brain, devising all the things I could say to make him feel better. Naturally, it didn't take me long to generate a list. The choice that had the greatest probability of success, however, was something I'd thought of almost three years ago. Something about heroes in general and Shepard in particular.

"I used to think that too," I started. "I always thought heroes were just being rewarded for being too reckless. Or too blind to a universe that wasn't black and white. Or being smart enough to pull the wool over the eyes of people who were too gullible and stupid.

"But there's another kind of hero out there. One who goes above and beyond with words as well as deeds. One who stops to listen to people, no matter how big their credit account or what planet they came from. One who knows when to bend the little rules while holding fast and true to the ones that matter. One who looks past the facade, sees people for who they really are and encourages them to be their best... even when they don't think they deserve it.

"That's the kind of hero the galaxy needs more of. The hero who gives selflessly without any expectation of recognition or reward, even if he deserves all that and more. The kind of hero who makes life better one little act at a time, never realizing how much of a difference he will truly make.

"That's the kind of hero you are, Shepard," I finished, reaching over and turning his head towards me. "Don't lose sight of that." **(9) **

Shepard's mouth had dropped by this point. His eyes held this look of stunned bewilderment, as if he'd never heard these things before—from _anyone_. Sadly enough, he probably hadn't. "You... y-you really think that?" he whispered.

In response, I leaned forward and kissed him. And by kiss, I don't mean a little peck on the cheek out of friendship or casual affection. Not the smoldering, intense kiss full of sizzling delights and sinful promises. Just a simple, tender kiss that offered nothing but support. Fidelity.

And—most importantly—love.

When I pulled away, Shepard's eyes were still stunned. And swimming. A lone tear trickled down his cheek. I could've mentioned it. Or wiped it away. I could've done a lot of things.

Instead, I just pulled him into my arms and held him.

My mind told me that we stayed like that for nine minutes and forty-six seconds. The chronometer on my omni-tool would tell me, when I checked it later on, that we stayed like that for nine minutes, forty-six point one seconds.

My heart told me we stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity.

Eventually, Shepard stirred and pulled away. Not entirely, just enough to look me in the eye. "So."

"So," I echoed.

"Where do we go from here?"

With a start, I realized that I hadn't actually considered that. I started calculating and projecting all the possibilities. The result... surprised me. "I don't know," I finally admitted.

"Ditto," Shepard offered. He paused, then added "Doesn't that scare you?"

"It should," I replied, somewhat bewildered. "But... somehow it doesn't."

"Yeah," he nodded. "I know what you mean. I guess we'll just have to, well, improvise."

"Improvise," I repeated. From anyone else, that would have been cause for alarm. A sign that someone hadn't thought things through. From Shepard, however, that just seemed _right._

"You know," I suddenly said, "there is something we could do. Well, you, actually."

"Go on," Shepard prompted.

"Tell me about yourself."

Shepard raised an eyebrow. "This coming from the woman with an IQ off the charts—"

"Not really," I disagreed. "It's actually—"

"The woman with a memory that only Thane or Kelly could beat," Shepard continued, as if I hadn't said anything. "The woman who spent two years poring through every record, report and certificate that ever had my name on it."

"That's me," I nodded. "I know all of that. And yet... there's so much I don't know about you. Things that aren't in any official record. Things I want to know because I... well, you know."

I'm not sure if he did know, but he managed to extrapolate my meaning. "All right," he nodded. "Hit me."

I did. Gently, of course. On his shoulder. A brief gasp of life from my atrophied sense of humour.

"Funny," Shepard deadpanned. "Seriously, what do you want to know? What's on your list?"

Naturally, I had generated a mental list by this point. Naturally, Shepard would know that. That was one of the things I was starting to love about him. "Well... what's with your name?"

"My name?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "Well, your first name."

"It's not really that important," Shepard claimed, clearly trying to dodge the question.

I wasn't about to let him off the hook that easily. "Your name is Chuck."

"So?"

"Your name is Chuck," I repeated.

"Legally, it's Charles," Shepard pointed out.

"I know that," I conceded. "But the few people who actually call you by your given name call you Chuck instead of Charles."

"My parents were sadists."

Shepard just couldn't stop joking, could he? "Uh huh."

Shepard looked away. His eyes started tearing up again. "Seriously, though, no one's called me Charles in ages. Not since my dad, anyway."

Oh.

Ah.

I'd read about him in the course of my research. Stephen Shepard. A brilliant engineer in fields ranging from electrical and mechanical to aerospace and naval, not to mention one of the pioneers in computer and software design. By all accounts, a gentle and extremely curious man—just like a certain commanding officer of my acquaintance—who deeply loved his wife and son despite his chronic absentmindedness. Not to mention his many eccentricities. He was well known for going off on some random trip every now and then, only to forget to tell anyone where he was going, what he was doing or when he would return.

The last time he did that was about nineteen years ago. This time, however, he never returned. An exhaustive investigation turned up no trace of him. For all intents and purposes, Stephen Shepard had vanished from the galaxy.

As far as I could tell, the only things Shepard had of his father were his childhood memories... and the name his father gave him. And I'd just dredged that up again, along with any residual questions Shepard might have had on why his father left him.

Good job, Miranda, I scolded myself. Yet another failure to add to your record. **(10)**

Hopefully, I could redeem myself. "From what I've uncovered, most people call you Shepard. Why is that?"

"Started in Basic," Shepard explained. "I wasn't complaining. It was better than Irving."

"True," I admitted. "Besides, calling someone by their given name is more common than their middle name. Except for nicknames, of course. Which reminds me—how did that come about?"

"What? 'Chuck'? It was Ellie's idea."

Hmm. Chuck. It seemed right, for some reason.

"Don't tell me that's your only question," Shepard said.

Of course it wasn't. Maybe the next question would be a little less painful. "Is there anything in your quarters that's missing? Something you would've liked to carry with you if you had transferred to the new Normandy?"

"Ignoring the little logistical issue of transferring from a crashed Alliance vessel to a Cerberus ship," Shepard snorted. I detected a wry note in his voice, much to my relief. It seemed like he had rebounded from whatever pain I'd inadvertently caused him. And any issues—well-deserved, I had to admit—he might have with Cerberus were not directed at me specifically. "Maybe the scope from my first sniper rifle. Little self-reminder to stay far, far away from trouble. I know, I know," he added, seeing the incredulous look on my face. "Clearly I was more than a little forgetful. Either that, or I had the worst luck ever. But just because I never actually succeeded, doesn't mean it wasn't worth trying." **(11)**

"True," I admitted. "You could say that about a lot of things, I suppose."

"Yeah. What's next?"

"Where did you get your taste in music from?"

"My mom," Shepard replied. "Apparently her teenage act of rebellion involved finding some music to enjoy that didn't come from 'yet another teenybopper virgin-to-slut act or some loud obnoxious rapper that grew up on the streets.'"

I made a sound of approval.

"Of course, she was equally complimentary about the classical music that was 'forced on her by people trying to make her into a proper young lady.' No offence."

"None taken. I can understand her resistance to something being forced on her," I commiserated.

"And the classical music part?" Shepard asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well," I sighed, "I can't say I agree with her taste, but I suppose nobody's perfect."

Shepard was silent. It took me a moment to realize why.

…

…

Wow. **(12) **

"Um, uh, so," I stammered, trying to recover, "your mother was responsible for culturing your appreciation in twentieth and early twenty-first century music?"

"Yep."

I had to ask: "And your habit of hacking into comm systems and playing that music over the speakers?"

"That's actually all me. But Mom approved."

That bit of data provided some tentative support for my hypothesis on where Shepard got his humour from. "What about your favourite song?"

"Wow," Shepard marvelled. "You really do have a list, don't you?"

"Of course I do," I sniffed. "Besides, getting to know each other is what normal people do."

"'Normal people'?" Shepard snorted. "Since when were we 'normal'?"

"We're not," I conceded, "but it's as close to normal as we'll ever get." Which was kind of sad, anyway. I used to... well, despise is a bit strong. Overrated might be better. Yes, in the past, I found the whole concept of normalcy to be overrated. People being unable to perform mass relay transit calculations or simple arithmetic because they're too reliant on their omni-tools. Being obsessed about the latest celebutante scandal instead of current galactic events. Throwing a fit over the price of starship tickets when entire colonies were going dark. And yet, there were times when I wished I could view life that way. It must be so relaxing to have simple problems like that.

Which reminded me that I was trying to be somewhat normal. "By the way, I'm still waiting for an answer."

"Which I didn't give because I was too busy finding the concept of being normal hilarious," Shepard replied. "The answer to your question is Ella Fitzgerald's rendition of 'Mack the Knife'."

"That's a remarkably specific answer," I said. "Is there a reason for that particular selection?"

The way Shepard's eyes lit up told me that was the right question. Which was why I asked it, of course.

"Okay," he said eagerly, turning to face me. "Picture this: it's the year 1960. Ella Fitzgerald is giving a live jazz performance at the Deutschlandhalle in Berlin. She's starts singing "Mack the Knife"... only to forget the lyrics! Which would be bad enough in and of itself, but Mack the Knife started out as a song in a German musical that premiered in the Theater am Schiff... Schiffbau..."

"Theater am Schiffbauerdamm," I finished, rescuing Shepard from his attempts to butcher the German language.

"Right," Shepard nodded. "Which means it's more than a little embarrassing. So what does Ella do? She improvises."

"She made up new lyrics," I said.

"On the spot," Shepard confirmed. "And it paid off. She got through the performance. Everyone loved it. She won two Grammy awards the following year. And her album, 'Live in Berlin,' would later be inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame!" **(13)**

"She was in a bad situation and couldn't run away. The only thing she could do was take the tools she had available and make the best of it," I summarized.

"Exactly," Shepard nodded approvingly.

"Just like you do on just about every mission," I realized. "_That's_ why you enjoy jazz music."

"That's what you get to do in jazz," Shepard grinned. "You get to make stuff up when things go wrong. Or even when everything's under control. You have the freedom to wing it. There was this other jazz artist, Dianne Reeves, who once said 'Jazz is synonymous with freedom.' That's totally true. It's so flexible, so broad, so open. Real life's not like that. I wish it was, but it isn't always the case."

"And when things aren't as open-minded or flexible as you'd like, at least you have jazz to fall back on," I finished.

"You got it!" Shepard was so excited at how thoroughly I'd understood his story and his affection for that particular genre of music that he reached out and pulled me into a hug. I had to laugh at the sheer infectious enthusiasm of his embrace. Then I realized just how warm his arms were. And his chest. And his eyes...

...

...

Er. Um. Was it me, or had the temperature controls suddenly malfunctioned?

Shepard looked just as flustered—and aroused—as I did. It appeared that what I was experiencing was not an isolated phenomenon.

"You know, I've never really listened to any jazz music before."

Shepard blinked. So did I. Part of me was scolding myself for opening my big mouth. Why did I say that? If I hadn't been talking, there was a 69% chance that we'd be making out by now. And an 84% chance that we'd be tearing each other's clothes off—either immediately or in the very near future. Why did I ruin the mood? Why?

Maybe because Shepard clearly had a strong passion for jazz music. A very strong and private one, given that he'd never played any jazz until now. It would be nice, as his whatever-I-was, if I could have some of that. Not that I wanted to be someone who completely changed my habits and interests to suit someone else. But it would be nice if we shared something in common.

Shepard blinked again. "Never?" he asked, sounding like someone who had been told that the Easter Bunny wasn't real.

"No," I shook my head.

"Never?" Shepard repeated, looking like someone who just discovered that 'Santa Claus' was actually his parents.

"Sorry," I shrugged. "I don't have any experience with jazz. No favourite sub-genres or artists. Not even a favourite song."

"No favourite song," Shepard frowned. At least he'd moved on from repeating 'Never'. "We're going to have to do something about that."

He pulled away from me—and I cursed myself again for opening my big, genetically-tailored mouth—and activated his omni-tool. He started scrolling through his extensive list of music. "No," he muttered. "No... maybe... possibly... definitely not... no... maybe..." He shot me a look, then shook his head. "Nothing from this guy... no... doubt it... no... that could work…"

This went on for three minutes and seventeen seconds. I was about to tell him that it was all right, that there was no rush to find a song for me. Then I realized that no one had ever looked up or chosen a song for me before. No one had ever taken the time to do so. No one had ever cared enough to do _anything _like this. So I decided to keep my mouth shut and not spoil things like I had three minutes and, well, now it was three minutes and thirty-four seconds ago_**. **_

"No... heck, no... no... wait, wait, wait."

Shepard looked up, stared at me, looked back at his omni-tool. Jumping to his feet, he darted over to his sound system, passing another desk and the N7 helmet that he'd retrieved from the crash site of the first Normandy. He tapped a command on his omni-tool, froze, then slowly turned back to me.

"I think I've found the one," he said solemnly, giving one final tap of his omni-tool. "This is going to be your favourite jazz song."

I got to my feet as a woman's deep, tenor voice poured out of the speakers.

_"Birds flying high, you know how I feel.  
Sun in the sky, you know how I feel."_

A smile spread over my face as I listened. "I like this," I admitted softly.

_"Breeze driftin' on by, you know how I feel."_

"Well," Shepard whispered, perhaps not wanting to ruin the mood, "that's a good start."

I had to agree. Especially when we kissed. Again and again and again.

_"It's a new dawn,  
It's a new day,  
It's a new life for me.  
Yeah, it's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me.  
Oooohhh... and I'm feeling good."_

Somehow we ended up on Shepard's bed. We stared up at the ceiling, listening in content as the woman crooned in the background. The warmth of her voice was matched only by the warmth of our bodies. The nurturing, comforting, primal joy found by fulfilling the need to be touched. The simple pleasure of a gentle embrace, one that offered safety. Comfort. Love.

An indeterminate amount of time passed before we looked at each other again.

"_Stars when you shine, you know how I feel."_

Shepard gave me a goofy little grin before raising his arm. Taking his cue, I pressed against him, snuggling under his chin as his arm wrapped around me.

"_Scent of the pine, you know how I feel."_

I didn't know how long this would last.

"_Oh freedom is mine."_

I didn't know what the future had in store for us.

"_And I know how I feel."_

But as Shepard tucked a stray lock of hair from my eyes…

_"It's a new dawn."_

…and I leaned in to kiss him again…

"_It's a new day."_

...I realized none of that mattered.

"_It's a new life."_

Shepard and I were together. Right here. Right now.

"_For me."_

And that was good enough.

"_I'm feeling good!" __**(14)**_

* * *

_(1): Naturally, Miranda would touch upon that—and recall just how long it lasted. _

_(2): Shepard never explained how it was that Joker and his squad wound up in the cargo bay. This account fills in that particular blank._

_(3): To be fair, it hadn't occurred to the vast majority of sapients either._

_(4): One wonders at how similar Garrus and Shepard were. _

_(5): No doubt Miranda hoped that Tali would have more luck convincing Garrus than he did. _

_(6): Shepard later revealed that that melody was a rendition of 'Stella by Starlight' played by George Benson and the McCoy Tyner Trio. Incidentally, while Shepard mentioned his fondness for jazz music in past reports, this was the first time someone else had come across him listening to it._

_(7): Readers may recall that Shepard encountered a similar relic on Eletania, during his hunt for Saren.__ (8): Shepard had mentioned his reluctance to call himself a hero before. This would be the first time he was so brutally honest about why he disliked that title._

_(9): I couldn't have put it better myself. _

_(10): Miranda was too hard on herself. By modern standards, his first name was rather unusual. _

_(11): Readers will recall that Shepard's mother had a different explanation for this particular piece of equipment. __She believed it was his way of literally and figuratively 'seeing' where he came from, where he was, and where he was going. In other words, a way of gauging how much he had grown and changed over the years and what he could look forward to. One is hard-pressed to determine which explanation holds the greater truth. _

_(12): Quite._

_(13): __Ella Fitzgerald won the awards for__Best Female Vocal Performance (Single) and Best Vocal Performance, Female (Album) __at the 3rd Grammy Awards, held on April 13th, 1961. Her live album, 'Ella in Berlin,' would be inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 1999._

_(14): __'Feeling Good,' written by Anthony Newley and Leslie Bricusse. The version Shepard played for Miranda, sung by Nina Simone, was released in 1965._


End file.
